GIFT   OF 


TALES,  BALLADS,   &c 


TALES  AND  BALLADS. 


BY 


CAROLINE    OILMAN. 


NEW-YORK: 

SAMUEL    COLMAN. 
1839. 


Entered  according  to  an  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1838,  by 

T.    H.    CARTER, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


Marden  &  Kimball,  Printers, 
No.  3  School  Street. 


CONTENTS. 


The  Missionaries.     A  Tale. 9 

Rosalie.     A  Ballad.  27 

An  Incident. 43 

The  Young  Conspirators.     A  Tale.  45 

Rosalba's  Lament. 69 

Mr.  Niblo,  the  Bashful  Lecturer.      ....  73 

Isadore.     A  Dramatic  Sketch.  90 

A  Sketch.  95 

The  Lost  Mail.     A  Tale  of  the  Forest.    ...  96 

The  Monarch  at  Prayer. 117 

The  Mummy's  Flower. 119 

The  Wife. 120 

The  Gamester. 146 

The  Disfigured  Miniature. 150 

The  Student  of  Valencia.     A  Tale.           •        -        -  151 

Francisco  De  Ribalta,  the  Spanish  Artist.    A  Ballad.  162 

Mr.  Inklin,  or  the  Man  of  Leisure.           -        -        -  166 

The  Backwoodsman.         - 180 

«  He  for  God  only  —  She  for  God  in  him."       -        -  483 

The  Fortieth  Wedding-Day. 185 

My  Garden.              186 

My  Knitting- Work. 189 


4H46S 


10  VH?.    MISSIONARIES. 

of  woods  enclosed  the  planted  fields,  forming  a  green 
curve  in  the  distance,  stopping  where  the  river,  beau 
tifully  clear,  came  in  with  its  graceful  flow  at  the 
foot  of  the  oak,  one  huge  branch  of  which  looked  at 
its  own  glossy  leaves  and  gray  drapery  mirrored  in 
the  waters  ;  a  warmly  tinted  sky  broke  in  bright 
flickerings  through  the  leaves,  and  tinged  the  stream  ; 
while  the  birds  of  day  flitted  to  their  nests  with  fare 
well  strains.  The  only  other  sounds  that  interrupted 
the  stillness,  were  the  plash  of  an  oar  and  the  distant 
horn  or  chorus  of  the  negroes. 

"  Look  up,  Isabel,"  said  the  speaking  girl,  "  from 
that  book  to  this  glorious  sunset.  It  is  worth  a  thous 
and  volumes  !" 

Isabel  shook  her  head  gravely,  her  downcast  eyes 
bent  to  the  turf  at  her  feet.  At  length  she  sighed  and 
said,  "  Cousin  Ellen,  a  solemn  duty  is  pending  over 
me  which  makes  me  blind  and  deaf  even  to  these 
great  natural  manifestations  of  deity.  I  begin  to  feel 
with  a  thrilling  consciousness,  that  I  have  no  right  to 
linger  over  these  scenes  of  my  early  joys.  This  book 
describes  the  wants  of  the  heathen,  the  poor  heathen, 
who  when  they  look  at  nature  acknowledge  no  crea 
ting  hand,  and  if  they  possess  a  friend  dear  to  me  as 
you  are,  Ellen,  know  nothing  of  that  world  where 


THE    MISSIONARIES.  11 

such  friendship  shall  be  made  brighter  and  unbroken 
through  eternal  years." 

A  soft  and  solemn  depth  was  in  the  tones  of  the 
speaker,  and  her  full  dark  lids  were  wet  with  tears. 

"  And  can  you  be  willing  to  think  for  a  moment," 
said  Ellen,  "  of  leaving  your  well-defined  fireside 
duties,  your  father,  your  mother  and  little  Rosalie, 
for  an  uncertain  sphere  among  the  heathen  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  uncertain  in  the  missionary's 
path,"  exclaimed  the  enthusiast,  as  she  rose  and 
clasped  her  hands  with  an  onward  gesture.  "  Every 
step  he  takes  is  heavenward,  every  sorrow  he  en 
dures  adds  a  gem  to  his  immortal  crown.  Yes,  dear 
garden,  where  my  childhood's  foot  has  trod,  skies  that 
have  so  long  looked  down  upon  me,  birds  which  have 
sung  me  songs  from  year  to  year,  father,  mother, 
sister,  farewell !  A  prophetic  hope  of  good  is  upon 
me.  I  must  go." 

"  With  which  of  these  handsome  students  are  you 
about  to  partake  the  crown  of  martyrdom  ? "  said 
Ellen,  archly,  yet  trying  to  suppress  the  smile  on  her 
lips. 

"  With  Henry  Clayborne,  as  his  wedded  wife," 
said  Isabel  with  dignity,  scarcely  a  blush  tinging  the 
delicate  hue  of  her  cheek. 

Ellen  turned  deadly  pale  —  a  rush  as  of  sudden 


12  THE    MISSIONARIES. 

winds  sounded  through  her  brain ;  but  recovering 
instantly,  she  stooped  to  caress  a  tame  fawn  which  was 
browsing  at  her  side.  We  will  not  penetrate  the 
secrets  of  that  young  heart;  like  many  others  it  must 
bend  or  break  in  loneliness,  but  too  happy  if  it  can 
suffer  unseen.  Isabel,  absorbed  in  the  contemplation 
of  her  own  lofty  purposes,  did  not  observe  the  agita 
tion  of  her  cousin.  These  almost  masculine  purposes 
belonged  to  a  young  and  seemingly  fragile  being; 
but  it  is  wonderful  how  feminine  enthusiasm  bears 
up  the  frail  and  delicate,  where  seemingly  stronger 
spirits  fail.  One  who  noted  Isabel's  slight  figure,  arid 
looked  into  the  soft  depths  of  her  eyes,  and  heard  her 
gentle  voice,  would  never  have  dreamed  that  she 
could  voluntarily  leave  the  feathered  nest  of  her 
childhood  for  the  dangers  of  the  ocean  and  the  hard 
ships  of  an  Indian  exile ;  but  such  have  not  studied 
the  promptings  of  human  will,  coupled  with  strong 
religious  enthusiasm. 

That  evening  Henry  Clayborne  came  to  hear  his 
final  sentence :  he  felt  what  it  would  be,  for  Isabel's 
touching  welcome  told  more  than  words.  It  was  not 
the  downcast  blush  of  common  acceptance,  but  the 
frank  determined  glow  of  a  holy  resolution. 

"  This  kindness  augurs  well  for  me,"  he  said, 
fondly,  as  he  held  her  confiding  hand,  "  but  I  have 


THE    MISSIONARIES.  13 

come  resolved  not  to  take  advantage  of  it.  Better, 
dearest,  is  it  for  me  to  brave  this  wild  path  alone.  I 
leave  no  mother  who  nursed  my  childhood  to  weep 
over  my  absence,  no  father  to  sigh  for  attentions  he 
just  begins  to  realize,  no  little  sister  whose  opening 
mind  I  ought  to  mould.  Besides,  I  am  a  man,  and 
can  tread  through  dangers  where  your  softer  spirit 
would  droop.  I  could  not  bear,  love,  to  see  this  white 
brow  "  —  and  he  pressed  his  lips  to  it  with  subdued 
homage — "burning  beneath  those  sultry  skies;  I 
could  not  bear  that  these  tender  feet  should  fail  in  the 
wilderness,  nor  that  your  intellectual  powers  and 
affectionate  heart  should  languish  for  sympathy.  Be 
my  bride,  and  with  that  claim  upon  you  I  shall  de 
part  braced  for  danger  —  but  I  must  go  alone.  My 
dreams  were  terrific  last  night ;  and  when  I  awoke, 
the  glow  of  the  missionary  was  lost  in  the  tremor  of 
the  lover.  You  must  remain,  my  Isabel." 

"  You  have  been  tempted,  Henry,"  said  the  brave 
girl,  caressing  the  hand  she  held.  "  God  has  with 
drawn  his  countenance  from  you,  or  you  would  not 
talk  thus.  My  parents  will  shortly  feel  a  holy  pride 
in  their  bold  missionary  girl,  as  friend  after  friend 
gathers  round  to  hear  of  her  welfare  with  religious 
sympathy.  Besides,  Henry,  who  should  think  of 
such  ties  when  God  calls  ?  We  must  tread  the  waves 


14  THE    MISSION  ARIES. 

at  the  voice  of  Jesus.  His  voice  is  near,  I  hear  it 
now.  Help,  Father,  help,  or  we  perish,"  she  ex 
claimed,  and  her  face  glowed  like  an  angel's  as  she 
sank  on  her  knees  with  clasped  hands  and  prayerful 
eyes.  "  Shall  we  sink  while  he  is  by  ?  Look  on  thy 
servants  in  this  hour  of  need ;  the  storm  of  temptation 
is  near,  the  billows  rage,  put  forth  thy  hand  and  save." 
Henry  knelt  beside  her;  he  caught  the  soaring 
enthusiasm  of  his  promised  bride  —  his  voice  was 
not  heard,  but  his  lips  moved.  In  those  moments  of 
stillness,  a  sublime  self-dedication  had  been  made. 
They  both  rose.  "  We  go  together,"  he  whispered, 
and  folded  her  to  his  heart. 

A    MOTHER'S   TRIALS. 

There  were  busy  preparations  for  the  bridal  and 
voyage.  Religion,  love,  friendship,  were  active ;  and 
even  strangers,  as  they  heard  the  story  of  the  self- 
immolation  of  the  young  and  beautiful  girl,  sent  in 
their  testimonials  of  interest. 

When  friends  entered  and  bestowed  their  parting 
kiss  on  her  sister,  Rosalie's  pretty  eyes  filled  with 
tears  ;  but  the  gifts,  the  bustle,  and  novelty  of  prepa 
ration  soon  dried  them  up  again.  A  doubting  cast  of 
care  was  on  the  father's  brow,  but  he  bade  God  speed 
and  bless  his  child.  Ellen  went  mechanically  through 


THE    MISSIONARIES.  15 

her  duties.  If  she  was  sadder  and  paler  than  her 
wont,  was  it  not  for  Isabel,  her  dear  friend  and  cousin  ? 
And  how  fared  it  with  the  mother  of  the  young  exile  ? 
She  busied  herself,  for  she  dared  not  be  idle.  She 
checked  the  struggling  sigh,  and  wiped  off  the  gather 
ing  tear,  and  her  short  ejaculatory  prayer  for  patience 
and  submission  went  up  when  none  could  hear. 
Time  sped,  (how  soon  he  flies  with  moments  counted 
by  parting  friends  !)  and  the  bridal  was  to  take  place 
on  the  morrow,  the  departure  the  succeeding  day. 
One  by  one  the  family  retired  —  the  mother  last,  for 
a  troubled  and  restless  emotion  made  her  wakeful. 
As  she  sat  alone,  the  ticking  of  the  timepiece  seemed 
almost  shrill  to  her  excited  ear.  She  recalled  the 
childish  joy  of  Isabel,  when,  raised  to  that  old  clock, 
she  clapped  her  hands  at  the  revolving  moon,  whose 
round  face  looked  upon  her ;  there  was  the  little  chair, 
now  Rosalie's,  in  which  Isabel  had  sought  ambi 
tiously,  but  in  vain,  to  rest  her  dimpled  feet  on  the 
floor.  That  room  could  almost  tell  her  history. 
There  wras  the  framed  and  faded  sampler,  mocked  by 
the  changing  fashions  of  the  day  ;  the  more  elaborate 
and  tasteful  decorations  of  the  pencil ;  the  piano 
which  had  soothed  and  brightened  her  varying  hours. 
Was  it  possible  that  those  dear  hands  should  touch 
its  chords  no  more  for  years,  perhaps  forever  ?  There 


16  THE    MISSIONARIES. 

was  the  work-box,  the  quiet  but  precious  instrument 
over  which  a  woman's  heart  pours  out  its  home  emo 
tions  in  most  unconscious  freedom.  She  opened  it 
with  a  trembling  hand.  How  tasteful,  how  judicious  ! 
Character  was  visible  in  all  its  combinations ;  it  spoke 
of  economy,  just  arrangement  and  fancy,  while  little 
touches  of  the  affections  peeped  forth  from  its  many 
compartments.  As  she  gazed  on  these  things,  tears 
gushed  forth,  and  she  heard  not  Isabel's  light  foot 
step  until  her  arms  were  thrown  around  her. 

"  I  would  that  you  had  not  witnessed  these  emo 
tions,"  said  her  mother  almost  coldly.  "  You  have 
chosen  your  path,  and  leave  me  to  go  down  coldly  to 
mine.  Strangers  are  to  occupy  the  heart  which  I 
have  trained  for  eighteen  years.  But  go.  Console 
yourself  as  you  will,  midnight  and  tears  are  my  por 
tion." 

Isabel  clung  to  her  mother  beseechingly,  the  lofty 
look  of  heroism  almost  driven  from  her  brow.  "  Moth 
er,  your  parents  doted  on  you,"  she  said  falter- 
ingly,  "  as  you  on  me  —  yet  you  left  their  arms  for 
an  earthly  love.  How  much  greater  is  the  duty  that 
calls  me  from  you  —  to  give  salvation  to  the  lost,  life 
to  the  dying !  Oh  mother,"  she  continued,  grasping 
her  hand  with  kindling  eye  and  solemn  gesture, 
"  should  I  die  in  this  enterprise,  go  boldly  to  the  court 


THE    MISSIONARIES.  17 

of  Heaven  and  ask  for  your  child.  How  proud  will 
be  your  joy  to  see  the  weak  and  humble  girl  you 
nurtured  in  your  bosom  surrounded  by  the  white- 
robed  souls  she  has  rescued  through  Christ's  mercy, 
perchance  leading  their  hymns  in  Heaven  as  she  has 
done  on  earth !  Oh,  mother,  will  they  not  greet  you 
with  a  new  song  of  joy?  —  'Welcome  thou  whose 
child  has  opened  unto  us  the  book  of  life  ! ' ' 

Her  mother  was  awed,  silenced.  She  took  the 
dear  enthusiast  to  her  arms,  stroked  the  falling  hair 
from  her  glistening  eyes,  and  pressing  that  soft  cheek 
to  her  bosom  said,  "  I  will  resign  thee,  beloved  — 
God's  will  be  done." 

THE     PARTING. 

The  bridal  was  over,  the  few  guests  had  gone,  and 
silence  settled  on  that  little  group  so  soon  to  be  sev 
ered  by  rolling  seas.  Isabel  touched  a  few  chords  on 
her  piano.  At  first  her  hand  trembled,  and  Rosalier 
who  stood  by  looking  wistfully,  wiped  her  sister's 
cheek  with  her  little  handkerchief.  Gradually  her 
fingers  became  firm  as  her  thoughts  possessed  them 
selves  of  her  great  mission,  and  her  voice  full  and 
deep  as  in  her  freest  moments,  while  she  sang  to  the 
tune  of  the  "  Bride's  Farewell,"  the  touching  verses 
of  a  southern  poetess. 


18  THE    MISSIONARIES. 


BY   MISS   MARY   PALMER. 

Farewell,  mother !  Jesus  calls  me 
Far  away  from  home  and  thee ; 
Earthly  love  no  more  enthrals  me, 
When  a  bleeding  cross  I  see. 
Farewell,  mother  —  do  not  pain  me 
By  thine  agonizing  woe, 
Those  fond  arms  cannot  detain  me  — 
Dearest  mother,  I  must  go. 

Farewell,  father !  0,  how  tender 
Are  the  cords  that  bind  me  here  ; 
Jesus !  help  me  to  surrender 
All  I  love,  without  a  tear. 
No  —  my  Saviour !  wert  thou  tearless, 
Leaning  o'er  the  buried  dead? 
At  this  hour,  so  sad  and  cheerless, 
Shall  not  burning  tears  be  shed  ? 

Farewell,  sister !  do  not  press  me 
To  thy  young  and  throbbing  heart ; 
Oh  !  no  longer  now  distress  me  — 
Sister  —  sister,  we  must  part. 
Farewell,  pale  and  silent  brother  — 
How  I  grieve  to  pain  thee  so  ! 
Father  —  mother  —  sister  —  brother  — 
Jesus  calls  —  0,  let  ^e  go  ! 

Every  heart  was  throbbing,  every  eye  gushing  with 
tears  except  that  of  the  rapt  singer,  who  sat  with  up 
ward  look  like  a  bird  preparing  to  wing  its  homeward 
way  to  warmer  skies. 

Rosalie  had  been  cradled  in  her  sister's  arms  for 


THE    MISSIONARIES.  19 

three  years ;  that  night  was  her  first  banishment,  and 
the  child  had  sobbed  herself  to  sleep  in  the  little  crib 
assigned  to  her  by  her  mother's  bedside.  Isabel 
sought  the  slumberer  alone,  for  the  first  time  almost 
overpowered  by  regrets  stronger  than  religious  duty. 
She  locked  the  door,  and  trode  lightly  to  the  bedside. 
The  little  sleeper's  face  had  resumed  its  tranquillity, 
but  there  was  a  deeper  flush  than  usual  on  her 
rounded  cheek ;  and  as  Isabel  put  softly  aside  the  en 
tangled  hair  on  the  pillow,  she  found  it  wet  with  tears. 
Long  and  earnest  and  loving  was  the  gaze  of  the 
missionary's  bride ;  and  as  she  looked,  the  chest  of 
the  child  stirred  with  a  prolonged  and  trembling  sob, 
like  the  heaving  of  a  billow  when  the  gale  has  died 
away.  Isabel  disengaged  one  of  those  moist  curls, 
severed  it  from  its  luxuriant  companions,  and  placed 
it  in  her  bosom,  pressing  her  hand  a  moment  on  her 
own  throbbing  heart.  The  struggle  passed  away  — 
and  kneeling  by  the  bedside,  she  whispered  a  prayer. 

"  God  and  Father  of  innocence  !  "  she  said,  "  as  I 
love  the  soul  of  this  little  child,  so  may  I  love  the 
souls  of  the  young  benighted  ones  who  are  in  the 
darkness  of  heathenism.  Let  me  crush  every  love 
which  would  draw  me  away  from  my  high  calling." 

She  rose  from  her  knees  tearless  in  the  might  of 
holy  resolution ;  and  bending  over  the  little  girl, 


20  THE    MISSIONARIES. 

kissed  her  hands  and  forehead  ;  then  looking  upward, 
said  again,  "  God  bless  thee,  young  angel,  and  teach 
me  to  save  kindred  souls." 

A  low  knock  at  the  door  and  a  tender  voice  aroused 
her,  and  with  a  light  tread  she  left  the  room. 

THE     VOYAGE. 

The  young  bride  at  sea !  Who  has  not  seen  her 
gush  of  parting  sorrow  dried  slowly  away,  as  one  for 
whom  she  has  left  all  stands  near  to  comfort  her ! 
And  she  is  comforted.  The  long,  long  day,  listless 
to  others,  is  full  of  thought  to  her,  for  HE  watches  her 
steps,  her  smile,  her  sigh  —  his  future  and  hers  are 
one.  She  loves  to  see  the  sun-lit  waves,  the  evening 
stars,  with  him ;  and  the  storm  loses  its  dreadfulness, 
for  she  is  clasped  in  his  arms  amid  its  tumult.  Young, 
confiding  bride,  be  it  ever  thus  even  on  the  ocean  of 
life !  May  thy  trim  ship  tread  well  the  waters,  the 
sky  of  heaven  be  bright  above  thee,  the  winds  waft 
thee  kindly  on,  and  he  who  holds  the  helm  be  true  ! 

It  was  sweet  to  hear  the  hymns  that  rose  from  time 
to  time  from  the  young  missionaries  in  the  holy  joy 
of  their  sotils.  Isabel's  voice  kindled  in  rapt  delight, 
until  the  roughest  sailor  paused  and  caught  the  reli 
gious  glow. 

There  was  little  to  try  the  fortitude  of  the  missions- 


THE    MISSIONARIES.  21 

ries  in  the  voyage,  which  was  marked  by  the  common 
incidents  of  sea-life,  until  they  entered  the  bay  of 
Bengal.  The  day  previous  had  been  oppressive  ; 
there  was  a  stagnation  in  the  air,  as  if  its  circulation 
had  been  suddenly  suspended;  and  on  the  following 
morning  the  experienced  commander  reefed  his  sails, 
though  the  winds  as  yet  but  threatened  in  light  gusts. 
A  yellow  haze  loomed  athwart  the  sun,  which  was 
strangely  reflected  in  the  gurgling  waters ;  this  aspect 
continued  through  the  morning.  Henry  and  Isabel 
observed  a  change  in  the  countenances  of  the  seamen, 
which  at  first  they  could  scarcely  think  was  authorized 
by  the  appearance  of  the  heavens,  for  though  unusual, 
there  was  nothing  terrific  in  the  brazen  hue  of  the 
clouds ;  but  as  they  continued  to  gaze,  there  was  a 
mystery  in  the  stillness  as  if  the  foot  of  the  Eternal 
might  be  treading  on  his  wonderful  watery  creation. 
After  a  few  hours  a  steady  gale  commenced  —  gigan 
tic  clouds  rolled  like  troubled  spirits  through  the  air. 
and  as  they  strode  low  like  seeming  monsters  above 
and  around,  Isabel  shrank  nearer  to  her  husband.  At 
twilight  the  hurricane  began  —  and  the  chafed  ship, 
like  a  living  thing,  now  sank  as  in  despair,  now 
leapt  over  the  swelling  billows. 

The  missionaries  summoned  the  strength  of  their 
souls,  and  awaked  in  silence  God's  will.     It  was  a 


22  THE    MISSIONARIES. 

night  of  fearful  anxiety ;  no  one  slept  but  Isabel,  who, 
leaning  on  her  husband,  dreamed  sweetly  of  her  oaken 
seat  beside  the  river,  startled  only  when  the  en  plain's 
voice  spoke  in  the  deep  tones  of  the  trumpet  and 
over-topped  the  gale. 

Suddenly  a  heavy  sea  struck  the  ship  astern,  and 
the  waters  rushed  into  the  cabin.  The  shock  was 
tremendous.  Henry  bore  his  dripping  charge  in  his 
arms  to  the  captain's  cabin.  She  was  quite  insensible, 
her  loosened  hair  fell  about  her  in  wet  masses,  her 
lips  were  blue  and  her  whole  frame  rigid.  Henry 
chafed  her  cold  hands,  wrung  the  damp  from  her  hair, 
and  gave  her  restoratives.  She  opened  her  eyes  at 
length,  spoke  his  name,  and  laid  her  head  on  his 
shoulder  like  a  glad  child. 

"  We  will  die  together,"  whispered  she,  "  and 
though  we  are  not  God's  favored  instruments,  he  will 
carry  on  his  good  work  by  other  hands." 

And  now  the  uproar  on  deck  became  dreadfully 
terrific ;  huge  billows  burst  over  the  bows  of  the  ship, 
writhing  and  spouting  and  glittering  with  phosphoric 
light,  while  the  lightning  darted  and  flashed  over  the 
ocean.  The  captain  lost  his  assumed  calmness,  and 
-  his  wild  oaths  sounded  arnid  the  storm  like  the  shouts 
of  a  demon.  Isabel  shuddered  at  the  impiety  which 
could  thus  brave  Heaven,  when  seemingly  so  near  its 


THE    MISSIONARIES.  23 

final  judgment.  At  this  period  the  vessel  was  inert 
and  powerless,  drifting  like  a  disabled  swan  on  the 
waters.  Isabel  sat,  her  hands  clasped  in  Henry's, 
her  eyes  up-turned  and  her  lips  moving  as  in  prayer. 
At  length  the  welcome  sound  of  relief  was  heard,  the 
vessel  righted  and  the  waves  rushed  like  released 
prisoners  from  the  deck. 

The  morning  rose  in  beauty,  and  soon  the  lines  of 
green,  so  dear  to  the  landsman's  eye,  opened  on  the 
view. 

"  Is  your  heart  still  strong,  beloved  ?  "  said  Henry, 
as  he  pointed  to  the  distant  shore.  "  Are  there  no 
yearnings  for  friends  and  home  ?  " 

Isabel  smiled  and  pressed  the  hand  of  her  husband. 
"  The  Lord  has  not  preserved  me  from  a  watery  grave, 
that  I  should  bear  a  faltering  heart.  I  feel  strong  in 
his  arm,  let  him  lead  me  where  he  willeth,  so  I  can 
aid  his  cause." 

THE     NEW     HOME. 

Isabel's  emotions,  as  she  neared  the  shore  of  Hin- 
dostan,  were  almost  dreamlike,  and  she  asked  herself, 
as  objects  of  strange  novelty  met  her  eye,  "  What  am 
I,  who  have  ventured  thus  ?  —  an  atom  amid  the 
ocean  ;  but  the  Lord  careth  even  for  the  sparrow." 


24  THE    MISSIONARIES. 

The  new  perfume  from  the  flowers  was  among  the 
first  things  that  told  her  of  her  distance  from  home. 

"  I  have  to  remember,"  she  said  to  Henry,  "  that 
the  same  God  scented  these  rich  blossoms,  who  gave 
the  odour  to  my  garden  rose ;  let  me  not  forget  that 
he  too  is  the  God  of  heathen,  as  well  as  of  Christian 
souls." 

They  were  touched  with  the  picturesque  beauty  of 
the  scene  as  they  sailed  up  one  of  the  mouths  of  the 
Ganges.  Hindoo  cottages  in  the  form  of  hay-stacks, 
without  chimnies  or  windows,  clustered  beneath  luxu 
riant  trees,  contrasted  in  their  rudeness  by  the  more 
elaborate  pagodas.  Wide  fields  of  rice  and  grass  of 
exquisite  verdure  were  spread  around,  while  herds  of 
cattle  fed  on  the  banks  of  the  river.  But  a  glance  at 
the  inhabitants  concentrated  the  thoughts  of  the  mis 
sionaries,  and  fixed  them  on  the  worth  of  human 
souls.  They  were  willing,  in  the  devotion  of  their 
feelings,  to  enter  one  of  those  hovels  and  begin  the 
work  of  salvation.  But  new  objects  arrested  their 
attention  as  they  journeyed  to  the  seat  of  the  mission. 
A  bridegroom,  about  ten  years  of  age,  was  carried  in 
a  palankeen  crowned  with  flowers,  followed  by  a  pro 
cession  with  musical  instruments.  Tears  started  to 
Isabel's  eyes  as  they  followed  this  idle  pageant,  at  the 


THE    MISSIONARIES.  2t) 

thought  of  the  rational  and  simple  rites  of  her  own 
betrothal. 

The  next  object  that  called  prayer  deep  from  the 
souls  of  the  strangers,  was  the  worship  of  Juggernaut, 
the  miserably-painted  wooden  idol,  before  which 
immense  multitudes  assembled  with  overwhelming 
shouts.  Henry  and  Isabel  cast  down  their  eyes  at 
the  sacrilege,  and  remembered  the  simple  church  at 
home,  where  spiritual  prayers  were  the  choicest  gift 
to  Heaven. 

Their  curiosity  was  attracted  by  a  rude  kind  of 
basket,  suspended  from  a  tree.  On  looking  within 
they  discovered  the  partially  devoured  remains  of  a 
little  child.  Isabel  shuddered,  and  thought  of  the 
happy  home  of  her  childhood  and  Rosalie  pillowed 
on  her  mother's  bosom. 

But  the  most  horrible  scene  to  Isabel  in  this  memo 
rable  journey,  and  one  which  Henry  would  willingly 
have  spared  her,  was  the  sacrifice  of  a  woman  to  the 
manes  of  her  husband.  In  vain  the  missionaries  tried 
to  move  away  from  that  harrowing  scene ;  there  was 
a  spell,  a  fascination,  even  in  its  terrors,  that  chained 
them  to  the  spot ;  and  Isabel,  sick  at  heart,  with  start 
ing  eyes  and  panting  chest,  looked  on.  "  A  grave 
was  dug  near  the  river,  large  and  deep;  and  after  a 
few  initiatory  rites,  as  unintelligible  as  they  were  fan- 
3 


26  THE    MISSIONARIES. 

tastical,  the  widow  took  a  formal  leave  of  her  friends 
and  descended  into  the  chamber  of  death.  It  may 
be  that  she  was  stupefied  with  opium,  for  there  was 
a  mechanical  insensibility  about  her  that  seemed 
scarcely  human.  As  soon  as  she  reached  the  bottom 
of  the  pit,  to  which  she  descended  by  a  rude  ladder, 
she  was  left  alone  with  the  body  of  her  husband,  in  a 
revolting  state  of  decay,  which  she  embraced  and 
clasped  to  her  bosorn,  and  then  gave  the  signal  for 
the  last  act  of  this  shocking  scene  to  commence.  The 
earth  was  deliberately  thrown  upon  her,  while  two 
persons  descended  into  the  grave  and  trampled  it 
tightly  round  the  self-devoted  sacrifant.  During  this 
tardy  and  terrible  process,  the  doomed  woman  sat 
an  unconcerned  spectator,  occasionally  caressing  the 
corpse,  and  looked  with  an  expression  of  almost 
sublime  triumph  as  the  earth  embraced  her  body. 
The  hands  of  her  own  children  aided  in  this  terrible 
rite,  heaping  around  her  the  cold  dust  to  which  she 
was  so  soon  to  be  resolved.  At  length  all  but  her 
head  was  covered,  when  the  pit  was  hurriedly  covered 
in,  and  her  nearest  relatives  danced  over  the  inhumed 
body  with  frantic  gestures,  either  of  ecstacy  or  of 
madness." 

Before  the  termination  of  this  scene,  .Isabel,  who 
had  lingered  with  infatuated  interest,  fainted.     On 


THE    MISSIONARIES.  27 

recovering,  she  said  to  Henry,  "  Assist  me,  my  hus 
band,  to  hate  this  act  more  than  I  do.  Again  and 
again  I  thought  I  could  bear  to  die  thus  with  you, 
rather  than  live  without  you.  Will  God  forgive  my 
idolatry  ? " 

At  length  the  young  missionaries  reached  their 
home.  Home  ?  And  was  this  the  abode  of  the  deli 
cate  Isabel  ?  The  late  inmates  had  died  of  the  fever 
of  the  climate,  and  no  kind  hand  had  arranged  the 
few  relics  that  remained.  The  dwelling  consisted  of 
two  rooms,  made  of  bamboo  and  thatch,  with  doors 
opposite  each  other;  an  air  of  desolation  prevailed 
everywhere  around.  Day  after  day  Isabel  labored 
with  those  fair  hands  so  unused  to  toil,  until  an  air 
of  comfort  wrought  its  charm  around  her ;  then  her 
love  of  the  beautiful  broke  forth  ;  she  trained  the 
native  shrubbery  around  the  dwelling,  and  planted  a 
spot  on  which  her  husband's  eye  might  gratefully 
repose  as  he  sat  at  his  daily  studies ;  but  alas,  hunger 
and  heat  and  debility  often  took  from  her  the  power 
of  more  than  necessary  effort.  Nothing  is  more 
wearing  to  an  ardent  missionary,  who  has  sacrificed 
everything  for  spiritual  good,  than  to  find  himself 
trammeled  down  to  the  physical  wants  of  life.  Isabel 
felt  this  pressure  a  trial  almost  more  than  she  could 
bear  —  and  it  was  a  day  of  prayerful  thanksgiving  for 


28  THE    MISSIONARIES. 

her,  when  she  was  permitted,  by  the  employment  of 
other  hands  in  menial  occupation,  to  aid  her  husband 
in  teaching.  His  labors  were  lightened  by  her  active 
spirit,  and  it  was  a  blessing  to  her  soul  to  toil  with 
him,  to  listen  to  his  earnest  voice  as  he  preached  of 
salvation.  And  O  how  beautiful  he  was  to  her,  as 
he  stood  with  earnest  eyes  and  gestures  breaking  the 
bread  of  life  to  the  benighted  souls  around  him ;  and 
then,  when  evening  came,  they  could  sit  by  their  open 
door,  and  inhale  the  perfume  of  their  garden,  and  talk 
of  distant  America.  Were  they  happy  ?  Troubled 
thoughts  and  forebodings  sometimes  shot  through 
their  minds  like  an  ice-bolt,  for  death  might  come 
and  sever  them ;  conversions  were  slow ;  brutish 
ignorance  or  ingenious  scepticism  baffled  their  dearest 
hopes ;  the  seed  which  they  planted  seemed  thrown 
on  stony  hearts,  but  still  their  faith  was  firm ;  strong 
prayer  went  up  daily,  hourly  from  the  temple  of  their 
hearts,  though  all  others  were  closed  against  them ; 
faith  looked  with  her  bright,  keen  glance,  beyond  the 
present  hour,  and  showed  them  precious  souls  re 
deemed  by  their  toils. 

In  the  midst  of  these  emotions,  Henry  was  seized 
with  the  fever  of  the  climate.  Poor  Isabel  left  all  for 
him.  Night  and  day  she  bent  over  his  pillow,  and 
forgot  that  it  was  wrong  to  idolize  an  earthly  form  ; 


THE    MISSIONARIES.  29 

all  memory,  all  hope  were  lost  in  the  present  thought 
of  his  possible  death.  He  recovered.  How  sweet  it 
was  to  present  him  the  first  fruits  from  their  little 
garden,  to  bring  him  one  by  one  his  manuscripts  and 
books,  to  see  the  faint  glow  of  health  kindle  on  his 
cheek,  to  aid  his  faltering  steps,  to  feel  the  cool  hand 
which  had  so  lately  burned  and  throbbed  beneath  her 
touch  !  Isabel  sat  at  his  feet,  and  looked  and  looked, 
until  tears  started  to  her  eyes  for  love  and  joy. 

DEATH. 

One  evening  Henry  was  summoned  to  his  wife's 
apartment.  She  had  given  birth  to  a  boy.  The  little 
one  lived  but  to  receive  a  father's  first  and  last  bless 
ing,  before  his  perfect  features  settled  to  repose.  And 
Isabel  was  departing  too  —  the  loving  eye  grew  dim, 
the  sweet  voice  low.  The  boy  was  brought  to  her, 
his  young  eyes  closed,  the  discolored  lips"  where  the 
dark  touch  of  death  first  appeared  bound  up,  and  his 
little  hands,  the  exact  pattern  of  his  mother's,  crossed 
on  his  cold  breast.  She  pressed  him  feebly  in  her 
dying  arms,  raised  one  meek  glance  to  Heaven,  then 
fixed  it  on  Henry,  who  stood  statue-like  before  her. 
That  look  recalled  his  flitting  senses,  and  kneeling 
by  the  bedside  he  threw  his  arms  around  her,  and 
bent  his  face  to  hers. 


30  THE    MISSIONARIES. 

"  God  calls  your  Isabel,"  she  whispered.     "  What 
he  wills  is  right ;  but  be  not  alone.     Send  for  Ellen  — 
marry  her.     Cease   not    to  labor  for    the  perishing 
heathen.''     A  slight  convulsion  passed  over  her  face, 
and  the  lovely  spirit  was  gone. 

Henry  wept  not ;  his  soul  seemed  hardened  to  stone  ; 
he  placed  the  babe  in  his  mother'  arms,  and  it  was  a 
strange  pleasure  to  lay  that  little  head  on  her  bosom, 
and  twine  their  cold  hands  together.  Night  came  — 
his  attendants  left  him  alone.  The  breeze  that  swept 
through  the  open  doors  waved  the  white  garments  of 
the  dead.  Henry  started ;  a  burst  of  wo,  a  loneliness 
most  drear  and  dreadful  came  over  him ;  he  wrung 
his  hands,  he  traversed  the  floor  with  groans  of  unut 
terable  despair,  he  bent  over  those  pale  forms  with 
clenched  hands.  What  was  life,  what  was  duty  to 
him?  He  must  tread  the  world  alone  —  the  silence 
was  insupportable.  He  shouted  aloud, — 

"  Isabel !  Isabel !  speak.  Speak,  my  boy  —  utter  a 
sound,  one  human  cry.  Oh,  death  !  death  !  " 

The  wretched  man  threw  himself  on  the  floor,  and 
wept  aloud.  From  tears  followed  prayer.  The  spirit 
of  God  descended  and  wrapt  him  in  its  folding  wings, 
and  he  grew  calm. 

Morning  came  and  he  was  tranquil.  He  laid  his 
beloved  at  the  foot  of  the  garden  beneath  a  tree  she 


THE    MISSIONARIES.  31 

loved,  the  blessed  baby  in  her  arms,  and  left  her 
there ;  but  when  evening  drew  nigh,  and  the  night 
odours  breathed  abroad,  he  sought  the  spot.  It  was 
a  terrible  joy  to  be  there ;  he  laid  his  face  to  the  sod, 
and  listened,  as  if  her  voice  might  answer  and  the 
breathings  of  her  heart  respond  to  his  own.  He 
struggled  for  prayer  —  but  his  lips  were  parched,  and 
the  words  died  away.  He  felt  as  if  an  awful  tempta 
tion  were  on  him,  as  if  God  had  forsaken  him ;  he 
lay  gasping  for  breath ;  dim  and  dreary  shadows 
flitted  before  him,  wailings  as  of  new-born  infants 
passed  through  the  air,  mingled  with  gurgling  death- 
moans  ;  he  touched  cold  forms,  and  they  clasped  him 
with  chill  chatterings.  He  was  found  in  the  morn 
ing  in  high  delirium. 

THE     CONFLICT. 

Henry  recovered,  and  returned  to  his  duties  —  but 
a  deep  cloud  of  sadness  invested  his  soul ;  loneliness, 
as  of  a  desert,  was  around  him  ;  there  was  light,  but 
no  warmth  in  his  existence.  As  he  sat  one  evening 
in  his  desolate  abode,  a  keen  rush  of  memory  like 
sudden  winds  came  by  him,  and  he  fancied  he  heard 
a  voice,  saying,  "Be  not  alone  —  send  for  Ellen  — 
marry  her."  He  started;  he  drove  the  thought  away 
like  a  guilty  thing.  It  came  again  and  again  :  it 


32  THE    MISSIONARIES. 

clung  to  him  in  the  midst  of  duty,  in  silence,  in 
prayer ;  the  winds  whispered  it ;  it  rose  in  dreams. 
He  ceased  to  visit  the  grave  of  Isabel;  young  flowers 
were  springing  there,  and  he  knew  it  not.  Impulse 
ripened  to  resolution.  He  wrote  to  Ellen  —  he  told 
her  of  her  friend's  dying  request ;  he  made  bare  the 
sorrows  and  wants  of  his  bereaved  heart,  and  he  asked 
if  she  would  be  the  ministering  angel  to  heal  its 
wounds.  He  promised  to  cherish  and  love  her ;  and 
though  a  cloud  would  shadow  their  memories,  it  would 
be  tinged  by  the  hope  of  aiding  each  other  in  the  great 
cause  of  rescuing  souls  from  death. 

Henry's  frame  of  mind  for  some  time  after  sending 
this  letter  was  calm.  If  his  proposal  was  accepted 
the  answer  wrould  be  in  person,  as  an  immediate 
opportunity  offered  for  Ellen's  departure.  But  as  the 
time  drew  near  for  her  arrival,  he  became  nervous 
and  depressed ;  he  re-arranged  and  improved  his 
residence,  and  removed  every  object  that  directly 
reminded  him  of  Isabel.  He  never  glanced  at  her 
grave ;  the  shrubs  grew  wildly  on  its  rank  soil,  and 
the  turf  was  green.  Time  flew  so  rapidly,  that  Henry 
sometimes  caught  his  breath  at  the  nearness  of  his 
fate.  He  labored  in  every  possible  shape;  there  was 
a  rapidity  in  his  step  and  eye,  that  showed  a  hurried 
mind;  he  slept  little  —  and  the  meanest  companion 


THE    MISSIONARIES.  33 

was  more  welcome  than  solitude.  Did  he  wish  Ellen 
to  come  ? 

She  arrived  ;  the  conflict  between  varying  feelings 
and  motives  had  almost  rent  her  frame  ;  but  she  came, 
shrinking,  sensitive  —  but  loving.  Trembling  to  her 
heart's  very  core,  she  extended  her  hand  to  Henry ; 
he  shrank  as  from  a  basilisk  —  and  uttering  a  loud, 
deep  cry  of  horror  and  disgust,  sank  on  a  chair  and 
wept.  Ellen,  deeply  affected  herself,  scarcely  com 
prehended  the  nature  of  his  feelings ;  she  too  was 
willing  to  weep  for  the  lost  and  gentle  Isabel.  Henry 
roused  himself — but  there  was  a  strange  and  hurry 
ing  tone  of  manner  that  agitated  the  embarrassed  girl. 
He  urged  their  immediate  marriage,  as  his  house  was 
their  only  residence ;  and  that  evening  she  became 
his  bride. 

A  year,  just  a  year  that  night,  Isabel  had  died. 
What  image  haunted  the  new  bridegroom  ?  Not  that 
of  the  adventurous  girl,  who  had  braved  everything, 
even  reputation  for  him;  no,  the  cold  pale  form  of 
Isabel  was  before  him  —  and  as  he  glanced  at  the 
apartment  where  the  evening  breeze  had  stirred  her 
shroud,  he  shrank  from  entering,  and  instead  of  the 
bridal  chamber  he  sought  her  grave.  Hour  after  hour 
passed  away;  a  new  alarm  filled  the  breast  of  poor 
Ellen,  a  stranger  and  alone.  She  drew  back  the 


34  THE    MISSIONARIES. 

curtain  of  her  window ;  the  air  was  sultry,  and  bore 
heavily  the  odor  of  night-blossoms  on  its  wing.  She 
leaned  from  the  casement;  the  blossoms  looked  silvery 
soft  in  the  moon's  rays.  Her  tears  gushed  forth,  for 
she  felt  forsaken  —  and  she  knew  that  the  world 
would  point  to  her  in  derision.  She  heard  a  moan, 
deep,  wild  and  piteous,  like  that  with  which  Henry 
had  greeted  her  when  she  had  sought  him  with 
love's  true  confidence.  Oh,  heaven !  was  this  the 
meeting  on  which  her  thoughts  had  dwelt  with  such 
dreams  of  hope  and  tenderness  ?  Why  had  she  fan 
cied  that  his  arms  would  have  enfolded  and  supported 
her?  Her  brain  grew  dizzy,  and  she  leaned  once 
more  from  the  window.  Again  that  groaning  shriek 
met  her  ear,  more  wild  and  fearful  than  before ;  and 
straining  her  sight  to  the  remote  part  of  the  garden, 
she  saw  Henry,  with  frantic  gesticulations,  embracing 
a  grassy  mound.  The  truth  flashed  upon  her :  he 
had  sought  the  grave  of  Isabel  rather  than  her  arms. 
Desolate  and  broken-hearted,  she  swooned  away. 

The  morning  aroused  her  to  misery.  Henry  was 
raving  in  the  delirium  of  a  fever,  now  calling  on 
Isabel  and  his  boy,  and  now  shrinking  as  from  some 
demoniac  vision  he  dared  not  name.  A  few  days 
passed  away,  and  gradually  and  humbly  poor  Ellen 
introduced  herself  into  his  apartment  —  her  eyes  down- 


THE    MISSIONARIES.  35 

cast,  her  voice  in  whispers  — •  and  performed  the  gentle 
offices  of  woman's  love.  By  and  by  the  sufferer  began 
to  call  her  Isabel,  and  stroke  her  hand  fondly  as  it  lay 
by  his  side,  while  with  the  other  she  smoothed  the 
entangled  hair  on  his  burning  forehead.  He  listened 
as  Ellen  talked  of  Isabel,  and  showed  him  her  picture, 
the  gift  of  early  friendship  ;  he  took  the  gathered 
flowers  when  she  told  him  they  were  fresh  from 
Isabel's  grave;  she  sang  the  hymns  they  had  once 
sung  together,  in  soft,  rich  tones  like  Isabel's  —  and 
kneeling  by  the  bedside,  prayed  that  her  pure  spirit 
might  look  down  and  bless  them. 

The  struggle  of  reason  was  awful  and  mysterious, 
and  sometimes  Ellen's  heart  failed  within  her,  and  a 
sickness  like  death  came  over  her  soul ;  then  would 
she  go  to  Isabel's  grave,  and  pray.  The  soft  breeze 
revived  her,  and  as  it  played  amid  her  curls,  she 
looked  like  the  spirit  of  hope  and  tenderness  —  and 
trode  back  with  a  lighter  step  to  that  scene  of  dark 
ness  and  care. 

One  day  while  she  read,  and  thought  Henry  slept, 
he  was  gazing  upon  her,  and  presently  he  spoke  her 
name.  Was  it  a  dream  ?  Ellen  clasped  her  hands 
in  eager  hope. 

"Ellen,"  he  said,  softly  and  tenderly.  "  Ellen  — 
my  wife ! " 


36  THE    MISSIONARIES. 

The  outcast  bride  threw  herself  in  intense  and 
trembling  joy  beside  him. 

"I  have  had  strange  dreams,  my  love,"  he  said, 
drawing  her  gently  towards  him ;  "I  am  glad  you 
are  with  me,  my  sweet  nurse." 

Ellen  could  not  speak ;  she  laid  her  head  on  his 
bosom,  sobbing  in  excess  of  happiness,  and  Henry 
wiped  away  her  tears, 


ROSALIE.  37 


ROSALIE. 

?Tis  fearful  to  watch  by  a  dying  friend, 

Though  luxury  glistens  nigh  ; 
Though  the  pillow  of  down  be  softly  spread 

Where  the  throbbing  temples  lie  ; 

Though  the  loom's  pure  fabric  enfold  the  form, 
Though  the  shadowy  curtains  flow, 

Though  the  feet  on  sumptuous  carpets  tread, 
As  " lightly  as  snow  on  snow;  " 

Though  the  perfum'd  air,  as  a  garden,  teems 

With  flowers  of  healthy  bloom, 
And  the  feathery  fan  just  stirs  the  breeze 

In  the  cool  and  guarded  room  ; 

Though  the  costly  cup  for  the  fevered  lip 

With  grateful  cordial  flows, 
While  the  watching  eye  and  the  warning  hand 

Preserve  the  snatched  repose. 

Yes,  even  with  these  appliances 

From  wealth's  unmeasur'd  store, 
'Tis  fearful  to  watch  the  spirit's  flight 

To  its  dim  and  distant  shore. 

But  oh,  when  the  form  that  we  love  is  laid 

On  Poverty's  chilly  bed, 
When  roughly  the  blast  to  the  shivering  limbs 

Through  crevice  and  pane  is  sped ; 

When  the  noon-day  sun  comes  streaming  in 
On  the  dim  or  burning  eye, 


38  ROSALIE. 

And  the  heartless  laugh,  and  the  worldly  tread, 
Is  heard  from  the  passers  by  ; 

"When  the  sickly  lip  for  a  pleasant  draught 

To  us  in  vain  up-turns, 
And  the  aching  head  on  a  pillow  hard 

In  restless  fever  burns  ; 

When  night  rolls  on,  and  we  gaze  in  wo 

On  the  candle's  lessening  ray, 
And  grope  about  in  the  midnight  gloom 

And  long  for  the  breaking  day ; 

Or  bless  the  moon,  as  her  silver  torch 

Sheds  light  on  our  doubtful  hand, 
When  pouring  the  drug  which  a  moment  wrests 

The  soul  from  the  spirit-land  ; 

WThen  we  know  that  sickness  of  soul  and  heart 

Which  sensitive  bosoms  feel  — 
When  helpless,  hopeless,  we  needs  must  gaze 

On  woes  we  cannot  heal,  — 

This,  this  is  the  crown  of  bitterness  ; 

And  we  pray  as  the  lov'd  one  dies 
That  our  breath  may  pass  with  their  waning  pulse, 

And  with  theirs  close  our  aching  eyes. 

My  story  tells  of  sweet  Rosalie, 

Once  a  maiden  of  joy  and  delight, 
A  ray  of  love  from  her  girlish  days, 

To  her  parents'  devoted  sight. 

The  girl  was  free  as  the  river-wave 

That  dances  to  ocean's  rest ; 
And  life  looked  down  like  a  summer's  sun 

On  her  pure  and  gentle  breast. 


ROSALIE.  39 

She  saw  young  Arthur  —  their  happy  hearts 

Like  two  young  streamlets  shone, 
That  leap  along  on  their  mountain  path. 

Then  mingle  their  waters  as  one. 

They  parted  ;  —  he  roved  to  western  wilds 

To  seek  for  his  bird  a  nest ; 
And  Rosalie  dwelt  in  her  father's  halls, 

And  folded  her  wings  to  rest. 

But  her  father  died,  and  a  fearful  blight 

O'er  his  child  and  his  widow  fell  — 
They  sunk  from  that  day  in  the  gloomy  abyss 

Where  sorrow  and  poverty  dwell. 

Consumption  came,  and  he  whispered  low 

To  the  widow  of  early  death  ; 
He  hastened  the  beat  of  her  constant  pulse, 

And  baffled  the  coming  breath. 

He  prey'd  on  the  bloom  of  her  still  soft  cheek. 

And  shriveled  her  hand  of  snow  ; 
He  check'd  her  step  in  its  easy  glide 

And  her  eye  beamed  a  restless  glow. 

He  choked  her  voice  in  its  morning  song, 

And  stifled  its  evening  lay, 
And  husky  and  hoarse  rose  her  midnight  hymn 

As  she  lay  on  her  pillow  to  pray. 

Poor  Rosalie  rose  by  the  dawning  light, 

And  sat  by  the  midnight  oil, 
But  the  pittance  was  fearfully  small  that  came 

By  her  morning  and  evening  toil. 

'Twas  then  in  her  lodging  the  night- wind  came 
Through  crevice  and  broken  pane, 


40 


ROSALIE. 

'Twas  there  that  the  early  sun-beam  burst 
With  its  glaring  and  burning  train. 

When  Rosalie  sat  by  her  mother's  side 

She  smothered  her  heart's  affright, 
And  essay'd  to  smile,  though  the  monster  Want 

Stood  haggard  and  wan  in  her  sight. 

She  pressed  her  feet  on  the  cold  damp  floor, 
And  crushed  her  hands  on  her  heart, 

Or  stood  like  a  statue  so  still  and  pale 
Lest  a  tear  or  a  cry  should  start. 

Her  household  goods  went  one  by  one 

To  purchase  their  scanty  fare  ; 
And  even  the  little  mirror  was  sold 

Where  she  parted  her  glossy  hair. 

Then  hunger  glared  in  her  full  blue  eye, 
And  was  heard  in  her  tremulous  tone, 

And  she  longed  for  the  crust  that  the  beggar  eats 
As  he  sits  by  the  way-side  stone. 

The  neighbors  gave  of  their  scanty  store, 

But  their  jealous  children  scowled ; 
And  the  eager  dog  that  guarded  the  street, 

Look'd  on  the  morsel  and  howl'd. 

Then  her  mother  died  —  'twas  a  blessed  thing ! 

For  the  last  faint  embers  had  gone 
On  the  chilly  hearth,  and  the  candle  was  out 

As  Rosalie  watched  for  the  dawn. 

'Twas  a  blessed  exchange  from  this  dark,  cold  earth 
To  those  bright  and  blossoming  bowers, 

Where  the  spirit  roves  in  its  robes  of  light 
And  gathers  immortal  flowers ! 


ROSALIE.  41 

Poor  Rosalie  lay  on  her  mother's  breast, 
Though  its  fluttering  breath  was  o'er  ; 

And  eagerly  press'd  her  passive  hand 
Which  returned  the  pressure  no  more. 

In  darkness  she  closed  the  fixing  eyes, 

And  saw  not  the  deathly  glare  ; 
Then  straigtened  the  warm  and  flaccid  limbs 

With  a  wild  and  fearful  care. 

And  ere  the  dawn  of  the  morrow  broke 

On  the  night  that  her  mother  died, 
Poor  Rosalie  sank  from  her  long,  long  watch 

In  sleep  by  her  mother's  side. 

'T  was  a  sorrowful  sight  for  the  neighbors  to  see 
(When  they  woke  from  their  kindlier  rest) 

The  beautiful  girl,  with  her  innocent  face, 
Asleep  on  the  corpse's  breast. 

Her  hair  flowed  about  by  her  mother's  side, 

And  her  hand  on  the  dead  hand  fell ; 
Yet  her  breathing  was  light  as  the  lily's  roll 

When  waved  by  the  ripple's  swell. 

There  was  surely  a  vision  of  heaven's  delighi 

Haunting  her  exquisite  rest, 
For  she  smiled  in  her  sleep  such  a  heavenly  smile 

As  could  only  beam  out  from  the  blest. 

'T  was  fearful  as  beautiful ;  and  as  they  gazed, 

The  neighbors  stood  whispering  low, 
Nor  dared  they  remove  her  white  arm  from  the  dead, 

Where  it  seemed  in  its  fondness  to  grow. 


42  ROSALIE. 

Life  is  not  always  a  darkling  dream  — 
God  loves  our  sad  waking  to  bless, 

More  brightly  perchance  for  the  dreary  shade 
That  heralds  our  happiness. 

A  stranger  stands  by  that  humble  door, 

A  youth  in  the  flush  of  life, 
And  sudden  hope  in  his  thoughtful  glance 

Seems  with  sorrow  and  care  at  strife. 

Manly  beauty  and  soul-formed  grace 
Stand  forth  in  each  movement  fair, 

And  speak  in  the  turn  of  his  well-timed  step 
And  shine  in  his  wavy  hair. 

With  travel  and  watchfulness  worn  was  he, 
Yet  there  beamed  on  his  open  brow 

Traces  of  faith  and  integrity, 
Where  conscience  had  stamped  her  vow. 

'T  was  Arthur  —  he  gazed  on  those  two  pale  forms 
Soon  one  was  clasped  to  his  heart ! 

In  piercing  accents  he  called  her  name  — 
That  voice  bade  the  life-blood  start. 

Not  on  the  dead  doth  she  ope  her  eyes, 
Life,  Love,  spread  their  living  wings  ; 

And  she  rests  on  her  lover's  breast  as  a  child 
To  its  nursing  mother  clings. 

A  pure  white  tomb  in  the  near  grave-yard 

Betokens  the  widow's  rest, 
But  Arthur  has  gone  to  his  forest  home, 

And  shelters  his  dove  in  his  nest. 


AN    INCIDENT.  43 


AN   INCIDENT. 

She  gave  me  violets. — 
All  know  these  flowers, 

The  simple,  lovely  things, 
Decking  bright  nature's  bowers 

With  blossomings ! 
With  hidden  head 

They  throw  their  treasures  round, 
Where  careless  footsteps  tread 

The  scented  ground. 

She  gave  me  violets.  — 
Not  in  the  time 

Of  laughing  summer's  sway, 
Nor  in  spring's  floral  prime, 

The  flowerets'  holiday  ;  — 
In  winter  wild, 

When  the  bleak  winds  were  chill, 
She  gave  them,  —  and  they  smiled,  - 

Were  odorous  still. 

Sweet,  sober  violets ! 
Not  in  the  hall 

Where  beauty  smiles  and  glows, 
And  fairy  footsteps  fall, 

And  music  flows,  — 
In  the  retreat 

Of  Sabbath  were  ye  givenr 
The  Church's  fane,  where  meet 

Warm  prayer  and  heaven. 


44  AN    INCIDENT. 

She  gave  me  violets, 
Whose  odor  spread 

Like  incense-prayer,  heaven-tending, 
While  each  slight,  delicate  head 

Was  humbly  bending. 
The  blessed  child  — 

A  violet  was  she, 
Growing  on  this  world's  wild 

In  modesty. 


THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS.  45 

THE  YOUNG  CONSPIRATORS. 

A   TALE. 

"  At  the  revolution  in  Naples,  in  1779,  two  brothers,  one 
fifteen,  the  other  twelve  years  old,  were  condemned  to  death, 
and  upon  the  entreaties  of  their  mother  for  their  pardon,  the 
king's  attorney  told  her  that  one,  could  be  spared,  and  bade 
her  choose." 

THE  flames  of  Vesuvius  were  hidden  by  a  bright 
morning  sun  that  lay  in  glory  on  the  noble  bay  at 
its  feet,  when  two  Neapolitan  boys  were  seen  issuing 
from  a  vine-clad  way,  removed  from  the  populous 
city.  They  were  followed  by  an  attendant  bearing  a 
basket  of  fruit.  Their  laugh  rang  free  and  wild  upon 
the  morning  air,  its  hilarity  tempered  by  the  grace  of 
courtesy.  They  were  brothers,  alike,  yet  differing. 
When  the  laugh  was  past,  a  tender  thoughtfulness, 
as  when  a  cloud  presses  on  dying  sunbeams,  shaded 
the  face  of  the  younger,  while  lines  of  light  like  the 
twilight  of  their  own  beautiful  clime  lingered  upon 
that  of  the  elder.  Amid  the  play  of  youthful  fan 
cies  was  mingled  a  classic,  softened  grace,  called  out 
by  the  nature  of  their  studies,  the  ancient  ruins 
around  them,  and  a  yet  softer  impulse  that  urged 
them  towards  a  widowed  mother,  for  whose  morning 


46  THE    YOUNG   CONSPIRATORS. 

meal  they  had  selected  the  choicest  fruit  of  the  en 
virons. 

Rosalba  de  Loria,  who  awaited  her  son's  return  at 
the  door  of  her  villa,  stood  in  the  glow  of  perfect  ma 
tronly  beauty,  for  the  sorrow  of  the  widow  had  faded 
away  in  a  mother's  love.  Ferdinand,  the  eldest 
youth,  pressed  her  extended  hand,  while  Lorenzo 
received  her  kiss  on  his  ready  lips. 

The  education  of  the  boys,  though  conducted  in 
retirement,  did  not  prevent  familiarity  with  the  scenes 
of  classic  interest  around  them.  They  glided  on  the 
beautiful  bay  with  its  garden-like  borders,  where 
vineyards,  groves  and  villages  blend  in  delightful 
harmony,  and  saw  the  skiffs  darting  from  shore  to 
shore,  or  pleasure-barks,  with  ornamental  streamers 
and  musical  accompaniments,  glancing  like  summer 
birds  in  plumage  and  sound.  They  climbed  to  the 
heights  which  overlook  the  delicious  country  of  Cam 
pania  Felix,  and  their  eyes  wandered  far  over  islands 
and  seas.  Sometimes  Rosalba  paused  with  them  at 
the  tomb  of  Virgil,  awakening  the  love  of  poetry  in 
their  souls ;  sometimes  they  sojourned  at  Pozzuoli, 
where  the  grandeur  of  the  sea  beyond  rivaled  the 
opening  glory  of  countless  flowers  at  their  feet ;  or 
the  wonders  of  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii  attracted 
their  curious  regards ;  but  the  most  delightful  enjoy- 


THE    YOUNG   CONSPIRATORS.  47 

ment  was  to  sit  with  Rosalba  in  the  balcony  of  their 
villa,  and  listen  to  the  story  of  their  brave  father, 
while  the  stars  twinkled  above,  and  Vesuvius  threw 
out  its  fires  on  the  darkened  sky. 

Nor  were  they  debarred  access  to  the  populous 
city,  where  their  little  knowledge  of  the  world  re 
ceived  an  accession.  The  great  street  of  the  Toledo, 
itself  a  world,  formed  an  exciting  contrast  to  the  ro 
mantic  seclusion  of  their  home.  The  following 
animated  description  by  a  modern  traveler,  (Quin,) 
almost  places  one  down  on  the  animated  scene,  a 
visit  to  which  was  an  impulse  and  a  reward  to  the 
young  students. 

"The  great  street  of  Toledo  presents  the  most 
diversified  and  amusing  scene.  Every  body  has  a 
costume  peculiar  to  himself,  as  if  attending  a  car 
nival  or  a  fancy  ball.  The  sun,  blazing  in  a  cloud 
less  sky,  flung  bright  lights  here  and  there,  while  the 
lofty  houses  cast  their  shadows  in  other  quarters,  as 
if  to  prepare  a  suitable  stage  for  this  national  exhi 
bition  of  character  and  occupation.  A  merry  fellow, 
with  a  dozen  tamborines  ingeniously  arranged  and 
perched  on  his  head,  while  he  played  on  another  he 
held  in  his  hand,  dressed  in  a  cloth  cap,  a  round 
jacket,  a  silk  handkerchief  neatly  tied  round  his  open 
shirt  collar,  a  blue  waistcoat,  and  red  striped  trousers, 


THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS. 


invited  the  world  to  buy  a  charming  beguiler  of  tears 
for  the  baby  at  home.  Next  a  green-grocery-man 
caught  the  eye  :  his  donkey  is  laden  with  a  mat  sack, 
nicely  balanced  on  both  sides,  having  a  large  mouth, 
where  cabbages,  cauliflowers,  salads,  and  celery,  are 
heaped  in  verdant  abundance.  A  sugar-loafed  hat, 
flatted  however  at  the  top,  is  on  his  head  over  a 
worsted  cap ;  his  swarthy  face  and  bare  neck  defy 
the  sun ;  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  a  red  waistcoat,  a 
small  pouch  in  front  for  his  money,  and  short  calico 
breeches,  complete  his  apparel.  No  stockings  hath 
he,  nor  shoe,  nor  sandal.  He  and  his  donkey  seem 
to  be  real  brothers. 

"  A  pious  piper,  who  lives  on  charity,  begins  the 
labors  of  the  day  before  some  shrine  of  the  Virgin, 
where  a  lamp  is  perpetually  burning.  His  instru 
ment,  composed  of  three  tubes,  with  trumpet  extre 
mities,  derives  its  melody  from  a  bag  of  wind  which 
he  fills  from  the  proper  wind  of  his  own  lungs.  His 
pointed  hat  is  clapped  on  the  top  of  his  bag  while  he 
is  playing  his  propitiating  prayer  for  success.  His 
nightcap  is  displayed  on  his  innocent  cerebellum,  his 
curly  long  hair  flowing  beneath  it,  and  showing  off 
his  ruddy  distended  cheek.  His  green  coat,  sleeve 
less  mantle  of  goatskin,  and  ash-colored  breeches,  a 
piece  of  linen  wrapped  round  his  legs  for  stockings, 


THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS.  49 

and  kept  there  by  leathern  thongs,  which  also  secure 
his  sandals,  show  that  he  has  not  been  blowing  to  the 
shrine  in  vain.  In  fact,  he  looks  a  very  respectable 
tradesman  in  his  way.  No  man  need  be  ashamed  to 
beg  after  such  a  fashion  as  that. 

"  Venders  of  roast  smoking  chestnuts  are  a  numer 
ous  tribe  in  the  Toledo.  They  have  prescriptive  sta 
tions,  where  they  fix  their  stalls,  within  which  a  small 
charcoal  fire  is  always  burning,  and  communicates  its 
heat  to  a  basket  filled  with  the  fruit  placed  on  the 
top,  and  covered  with  a  a  blanket  to  keep  the  nuts 
quite  hot.  Whether  men  or  women,  these  people 
seem  to  be  a  thrifty  set,  and  well  dressed.  The  man 
has  a  gay  red  worsted  cap,  a  silk  handkerchief  tied 
tightly  round  his  neck,  a  fine  yellow  waistcoat,  a  green 
round  jacket,  blue  inexpressibles,  clean  white  stock 
ings,  neat  shoes,  a  stool  to  stand  upon  and  a  stool  to 
sit  upon,  as  business  or  relaxation  may  require.  He 
cries  out  his  wares  at  the  very  pitch  of  his  voice, 
holding  his  left  hand  to  his  cheek  to  render  it  louder. 

"  But  have  you  seen  the  melon-man  ?  There  is  a 
picture  of  independence.  A  ragged  suit  of  loose 
short  trousers,  a  tolerably  good  waistcoat,  yellow  or 
sky-blue,  as  the  case  may  happen  to  be,  and  some 
fragments  of  a  shirt,  are  all  he  requires  in  the  way 
of  wardrobe.  A  long  board  is  balanced  on  his  head, 
displaying  the  blushing  fruit  nicely  sliced ;  and  on 


50  THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS. 

the  palm  of  his  left  hand,  equally  well  poised,  a 
shorter  board,  exhibiting  another  sample  of  his  mer 
chandize,  whilst  in  his  right  hand  he  gracefully 
waves  a  sprig  of  myrtle. 

"  Who  is  he  with  that  snug  capote  and  hood,  and 
some  pretty  little  baskets  piled  one  on  another  under 
his  arm,  running  along  bare-legged  ?  A  fisherman, 
who  sells  the  most  delicate  fresh  herrings  in  the 
world,  just  taken  out  of  the  neighboring  bay  !  The 
bottle-vender,  whom  he  has  almost  knocked  down  in 
his  haste,  is  a  still  greater  curiosity.  Long  wooden 
pins  are  stuck  all  round  in  the  edge  of  his  basket,  on 
which  pins  very  thin  flasks  for  oil  or  wine,  with  long 
necks,  are  fixed.  He  looks  to  be  one  of  the  high- 
priests  of  Bacchus,  with  his  merry  face — always 
sure  of  a  market,  for  the  flasks  are  so  speedily  broken 
that  he  can  scarcely  supply  all  his  customers. 

"  The  segretario  is  a  perfect  picture.  Seated  at 
his  table  in  a  quiet  entry,  in  a  retired  corner  of  a 
street,  with  a  wise-looking  old  hat  shading  his  gray 
locks,  spectacles  perched  on  his  nose,  paper,  and  well- 
mended  pens,  and  ink  bottle,  sand  and  wafers  ar 
ranged  in  due  order  before  him,  he  waits  to  indite  a 
petition,  or  a  love-letter,  or  a  letter  from  a  sailor  to 
his  mother,  or  from  a  creditor  to  a  debtor,  or  to  trans 
late  from  Italian  into  French,  or  from  French  into 
Italian,  a  law  paper  or  a  memorandum  of  accounts  : 


THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS.  51 

he  is  prompt  at  all  things,  methodical,  confidential,  a 
clear-headed  clean  writer  —  a  very  valuable  sort  of 
person  in  his  way,  who  always  attracted  my  particu 
lar  respect  on  account  of  the  unweared  patience  with 
which  he  waited  for  his  customers,  who  were  too 
"  few  and  far  between." 

"  The  pride  of  the  Toledo  are  assuredly  the  money 
changers  —  at  least  in  their  own  opinion.  They  are 
almost  universally  females,  and  it  is  a  part  of  their 
trade  to  display  their  riches  in  the  ornaments  on  their 
persons.  The  hair,  carefully  braided,  is  tied  under  a 
dashing  silk  handkerchief,  knotted  in  front  in  a  some 
what  coquetish  style.  The  broad  forehead,  and 
sharp,  well-practiced  eye,  and  intelligent  face,  pretty 
well  show  that  if  her  ladyship  make  any  mistake  in 
the  reckoning,  it  will  not  be  on  the  wrong  side.  There 
she  sits,  on  a  chair  before  her  strong-box,  on  the  top 
of  which  little  baskets,  overfilled  with  silver  or  copper 
coins,  are  arranged.  A  pair  of  massive  gold  —  real 
gold  rings  and  large  pendants  dangle  from  her  ears. 
Her  open  neck  displays  a  coral  or  pearl  necklace,  and 
an  embroidered  kerchief.  A  velvet  or  gross-de-Na 
ples  spencer,  a  chintz  gown,  a  handsome  silk  apron, 
fingers  covered  all  over  with  rings  set  with  precious 
stones,  sometimes  even  with  diamonds,  attract  cus 
tomers  on  all  sides.  The  itinerant  trader  who  dis- 


52  THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS. 

poses  of  all  his  stock  early,  and  is  laden  with  copper 
pence,  realizes  his  gains  in  silver  at  her  table,  on 
which  she  receives  her  small  commission.  The 
housekeeper,  who  is  passing  by,  and  wants  to  buy 
some  trifling  things,  gets  change  in  copper  for  silver, 
on  which  the  small  commission  is  freely  paid.  The 
neighboring  shops  that  want  accommodation  in  either 
way,  copper  for  silver,  silver  for  copper,  copper  and 
silver  for  gold,  or  gold  for  silver  in  any  quantity,  are 
sure  of  finding  all  they  want  at  the  money-changer's 
stall.  A  most  smiling,  happy,  unspeculative  tribe  of 
bankers  are  they.  If  you  look  at  one  of  them,  she 
will  expect  you  to  pay  her  a  small  commission  — 
which  small  commission  in  time  accumulates  to  a 
very  handsome  fortune,  to  go  down,  always  aug 
menting,  from  generation  to  generation.  An  um 
brella,  fixed  on  her  counter,  forms  a  canopy  over  her 
head  to  protect  her  highness  from  the  sun. 

"  Not  quite  so  opulent,  but  much  more  captivating, 
are  the  female  venders  of  fried  fish  —  magnificent- 
looking  women,  fresh  from  the  sea-side,  whence  they 
have  come  early  in  the  morning.  You  may  know 
them  by  their  yellow-plaided  neckerchiefs,  their  gipsy- 
looking  faces,  their  snow-white  linen  sleeves  tucked 
up  to  the  bend  of  the  beautiful  arm,  their  red-striped 
aprons  and  blue  gowns.  Of  these  syrens  let  the  fish- 


THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS.  53 

eater  beware.  With  her  earthen  pan,  in  which  a 
charcoal  fire  is  kept  alive  by  a  fan  of  rushes,  her 
soles  or  herrings  smoking  and  browning  on  the  said 
fire,  the  basket  of  dried  flags  covered  with  fresh  green 
flags  by  her  side,  filled  with  "live" fish,  cooling  in 
beds  of  fresh  rushes  —  her  bonny  figure  seated  on  a 
stool,  and  her  well-dressed,  dangerous  feet  peeping 
out  beneath  her  long  petticoat,  St.  Anthony  himself 
could  scarcely  refuse  to  take  a  fry  or  two  from  those 
clean  taper  fingers.  She  holds  the  fish  on  a  skewer, 
and  turns  the  little  martyr  round  and  round,  until  he 
is  done  to  a  turn,  the  mouth  watering  while  the  fra 
grant  odor  breathes  around  ! 

"  The  egg-woman  is  a  more  quiet  kind  of  body, 
though  she  too  seems  to  be  sitting  for  her  picture, 
dressed  in  her  tidy  green  apron,  her  russet  gown  and 
linen  sleeves,  her  ruby  kerchief  negligently  flung  over 
her  head  and  flowing  over  her  shoulders  behind. 
Next  comes,  shouting  his  "  oil  to  sell,"  a  great  farm- 
er's-boy-looking  sort  of  a  fellow,  in  a  gay  straw  hat. 
A  goat-skin  sack  of  oil  is  tied  round  his  left  shoulder, 
through  the  tail  of  which  he  admits  the  smooth  liquid 
to  descend  into  brass  pint  or  half-pint,  or  smaller  mea 
sure,  for  the  customers  whom  he  has  the  happiness 
to  serve. 

"  The  porters  are  now  the  only  remaining  repre- 


54  THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS. 

sentatives  of  the  lazzaroni  to  be  seen  at  Naples.  They 
form  a  kingdom  within  themselves,  of  which  every 
individual  is  monarch  "  of  all  he  surveys."  One  of 
these,  putting  down  his  oblong-square  flag  basket  on 
its  end,  dressed  in  his  shirt  open  half-way  down  his 
sunburnt  hairy  breast,  where  also  the  scapular  —  his 
amulet  —  makes  its  appearance,  and  further  decked 
out  in  his  loose  cotten  trousers,  that  scarcely  descend 
below  the  knee,  bound  tight  at  the  waist  by  a  red 
cotton  handkerchief,  his  blue  jacket  suspended  on  the 
very  end  of  his  shoulder,  his  face  and  huge  whiskers 
crowned  by  a  red  cap,  his  long  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
supported  by  his  left  hand,  his  right,  holding  his  well- 
worn  cords,  resting  on  the  other  end  of  his  perpendi 
cular  basket,  while  his  brawny  naked  legs  and  feet  be 
tray  his  occupation,  stands  looking  at  the  passing  scene 
with  an  air  of  ineffable  contempt.  When  he  has  done 
smoking,  and  imagines  that  he  has  sufficiently  vin 
dicated  his  dignity  by  attitudinizing,  he  will  place  his 
basket  flat  on  the  ground,  and  go  to  sleep  in  it,  until 
a  job  comes  to  summon  him  from  his  slumbers. 

"  At  every  corner  of  every  street,  there  is  a  stall 
for  maccaroni,  where  it  may  be  seen  served  out  from 
morning  till  night  in  all  sorts  of  ways  —  hot  or  cold, 
in  its  own  plain  soup,  or  in  savory  soup,  or  mingled 
with  a  little  stew,  or  simply  boiled,  or  baked,  or  in 


THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS.  55 

cakes,  or  in  elongated  ropes  of  about  a  mile  in  length. 
When  graced  by  the  savory  soup,  it  seems  to  be  most 
popular.  It  is  handed  out  smoking  hot  to  the  ragged 
customer,  in  an  earthen  dish ;  he,  without  any  cere 
mony,  takes  up  the  maccaroni  in  his  hand,  and  in 
troducing  the  extremities  of  three  or  four  ropes  at 
once  into  his  thorax,  lifts  his  hands  high  in  air,  and 
the  whole  dishful  vanishes  in  a  trice.  The  soup  is 
drank  at  discretion,  either  with  a  wooden  spoon,  or  ex 
abrupto,  out  of  the  dish  itself;  the  latter  more  expe 
ditious  mode  of  proceeding  being  usually  preferred. 

"  The  water-vender  is  met  everywhere,  and  at  all 
hours  of  the  day.  The  ice-man  is  more  stationary, 
though  equally  persevering.  Here  the  female  res 
torer  of  old  chairs  is  busy  with  her  rushes.  There 
the  smirking  milliner's  maid  is  tripping  it  on  the  fan 
tastic  toe,  with  a  bandbox  in  her  hand ;  she  is  wholly 
French,  and  out  of  keeping,  in  her  trim  cap  and 
ribands,  with  such  a  scene.  Everybody  lives  in  the 
street.  The  baker's  shop  is  thrown  so  much  open, 
that  all  the  mysteries  of  his  art  are  conducted  in  pub 
lic.  It  is  the  same  with  the  tinman,  whose  hammer 
never  ceases  to  hammer ;  the  blacksmith,  whose  bel 
lows  are  perpetually  blowing,  whose  fire,  in  the  hot 
test  days,  still  burns  on  as  fierce  as  ever,  and  whose 
anvil  never  gets  a  moment's  rest  all  the  day  long. 


56  THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS. 

All  the  gay  shops  are  in  the  Toledo.  All  the  pretty 
women  of  Naples  show  off  in  the  Toledo.  There 
the  idler  constantly  lounges  —  there  the  merchants 
meet  on  business  —  there  the  military  men  are  riding 
or  walking  up  and  down  in  their  splendid  uniforms." 

Yet  amid  this  gay  and  brilliant  population  float  the 
seeds  of  those  revolutions  which  have  so  often  marked 
the  political  history  of  Naples. 

On  one  occasion,  while  Lorenzo  was  purchasing  at 
a  stall  in  this  busy  scene,  Ferdinand's  attention  was 
arrested  by  an  individual,  who  with  a  gesture  seen 
only  by  him,  beckoned  him  apart.  A  cloak  and 
slouched  cap  concealed  alike  his  face  and  figure, 
except  that  through  the  folds  shone  forth  eyes  of 
peculiar  significance  and  lustre.  Ferdinand  instinc 
tively  obeyed  the  summons,  warned  to  silence  by  the 
uplifted  finger  of  the  stranger.  Withdrawing  just 
far  enough  to  keep  Lorenzo  in  view,  without  them 
selves  being  seen,  he  uttered  a  few  words  to  the 
listening  youth.  A  flush  of  surprise  lit  up  the  face 
of  Ferdinand,  followed  by  an  air  of  interest  and 
chained  attention,  until  Lorenzo  turned  inquiringly. 

"  Remember,"  said  the  stranger,  fixing  his  piercing 
eyes  on  the  boy  — "  trust,  secrecy  "  —  and  disap 
peared  among  the  crowd. 

From  that  moment  a  thoughtful  expression  gath- 


THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS.  57 

ered  on  Ferdinand's  serene  brow ;  something  which 
gave  it  the  stamp  of  manhood.  The  quiet  of  his 
home  was  no  longer  attractive,  the  Toledo  alone  en 
gaged  his  thoughts,  and  when  there,  his  eye  roved 
unfixedly  as  if  in  pursuit  of  some  unattained  object. 
At  the  same  hour,  on  the  same  spot  the  following 
week,  the  stranger  appeared.  Ferdinand,  already 
taught  the  language  of  deception,  beguiled  his  brother 
to  a  distance.  Then  followed  whispered  emphatic 
words,  and  the  keen  eyes  of  the  stranger  seemed  to 
search  the  inmost  soul  of  the  youth,  as  with  a  part 
ing  glance  he  again  uttered,  "  trust  —  secrecy" 

The  following  day  circumstances  called  Lorenzo 
alone  to  the  Toledo,  and  as  he  strolled,  with  his  usual 
careless  footsteps  along,  glancing  at  the  brilliant  spec 
tacles  around  him,  he  felt  a  slight  but  emphatic 
touch  on  his  shoulder.  He  turned,  and  the  eyes  of 
the  stranger  were  on  him.  His  first  feeling  was  to 
escape,  but  a  deep  toned  voice,  full  of  strange  autho 
rity,  whispered  "  follow  me ;  your  country  demands 
you."  Lorenzo  shook  off  the  momentary  apprehen^ 
sion,  and  with  a  new  impulse  of  curiosity  followed 
the  steps  of  the  figure,  who  threading  the  crowd  led 
him  to  a  spot  of  comparative  retirement.  Whatever 
were  the  words  then  uttered,  they  took  deep  hold  of 
the  inmost  heart  of  the  sensitive  boy,  and  as  the 
5 


58  THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS. 

stranger  on  departing  uttered  the  watchword  "  trust, 
secrecy"  he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  throbbing  breast, 
and  responded  like  a  prayer.  From  that  day  there 
was  a  struggle  of  feeling  in  Lorenzo's  hitherto  calm 
existence,  that  shook  its  very  depths.  He  became 
reserved  to  Ferdinand,  but  a  deeper  tenderness  cha 
racterized  his  manner  to  his  mother,  mingled  with  a 
fitfulness,  an  excess,  that  almost  alarmed  her.  He 
followed  her  footsteps  like  one  he  feared  to  lose. 

It  was  one  of  those  bright  nights  that  woo  to  watch 
fulness  rather  than  slumber,  when  Ferdinand  leaned 
from  his  casement,  and  looked  out  on  the  scene 
flooded  by  moonlight.  But  it  was  not  the  softness  of 
night's  smile  that  wooed  him  to  where  the  moonlight 
decked  the  meanest  leaf  with  a  diamond  glitter ;  nor 
was  the  glow  on  his  beardless  cheek  awakened  by  its 
mellow  hue. — "  Trust,  secrecy"  were  uttered  by  a 
muffled  figure  retreating  through  the  shrubbery, 
while  Ferdinand  held  his  breath  to  hear.  He  glanced 
hurriedly  at  Lorenzo,  who  lay  wrapt  in  the  innocent 
beauty  of  sleep,  his  white  brow  upturned  to  the  light. 
While  Ferdinand  looked,  a  troubled  smile  crossed  the 
lips  of  the  dreamer,  and  he  whispered  "  trust,  se 
crecy."  His  tones  were  low  and  soft  as  woman's  first 
answer  to  love,  but  they  darted  through  his  brother's 
ear  like  a  thunderbolt.  His  first  impulse  was  to 


THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS.  59' 

arouse  and  tax  him  as  a  listener,  but  the  profound 
ness  of  his  repose  seemed  to  contradict  his  first  belief, 
and  he  left  him  to  his  slumbers,  while  with  mingled 
emotions  he  sought  his  own  pillow. 

At  the  same  hour  on  the  following  night  the 
stranger  again  appeared. 

"  Our  secret  is  known,"  said  Ferdinand. 

"  How ! "  cried  the  stranger,  grasping  the  dagger 
concealed  beneath  his  cloak. 

"  Lorenzo  has  whispered  the  watchword  in  his 
sleep,"  said  his  brother. 

"  Noble  boys  ! "  exclaimed  the  stranger,  and  a 
smile  crossed  the  dark  lines  of  his  countenance,  like 
the  ray  that  struggled  through  the  flitting  clouds. 
"  No  trust  is  betrayed.  I  have  confided  in  him  that 
I  might  try  you  both.  The  time  draws  near  for  ac 
tion." 

"  But  he  is  so  young,"  hesitated  Ferdinand ;  "  and 
our  mother  —  how  can  we  risk  her  happiness,  cen 
tered  as  it  is  in  us  alone  ?  " 

"  It  is  woman's  fate  to  yield  and  suffer,"  said  the 
stranger  moodily.  "  I  too  have  ties  to  rend."  He 
paused,  and  a  thrilling  sigh  sounded  audibly  in  the 
stillness.  "  Awaken  Lorenzo." 

Ferdinand  retired  from  the  window  to  the  bedside, 
and  touched  the  arm  of  the  slumberer.  His  was  the 


60  THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS. 

delicious  repose  of  youth,  and  clung  to  him  like  a 
garment. 

"  Lorenzo,  Lorenzo  !  "  said  his  brother,  "  awake." 

The  boy  turned  languidly,  half  opened  his  eyes, 
and  throwing  his  arm  over  his  head,  fell  again  to 
slumber. 

"  Trust,  secrecy"  whispered  Ferdinand  in  his  ear. 
The  word  was  like  flame  to  the  mine;  he  started 
wildly  from  the  bed,  planted  his  foot  firmly  on  the 
floor,  and  exclaimed,  "ready." 

Ferdinand  drew  his  arm  within  his  own,  and  in  a 
few  moments  they  were  in  a  recess  of  the  garden 
with  the  stranger. 

There  was  an  expression  of  anxiety  and  alarm  on 
the  countenances  of  the  youths  as  he  unfolded  his 
plans. 

"  It  is  robbery,"  murmured  Lorenzo,  — "  robbery 
of  a  mother  too  !  " 

"  Things  have  a  different  name  under  different  cir 
cumstances,  young  gentlemen,"  said  the  stranger. 
"  History  will  call  the  deed  patriotism.  The  noble 
band  who  have  resolved  to  rescue  the  state  from  op 
pression,  have  sworn  that  none  of  the  softer  affections 
shall  stand  between  them  and  their  country.  They 
require  pecuniary  aid,  and  you  can  give  it.  If  you 
drive  away  these  boyish  feelings,  and  procure  me  the 


THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS.  61 

paper  from  your  mother's  cabinet,  you  aid  in  that  for 
which  heroes  have  sacrificed  more  than  paltry  gold. 
And  remember,"  he  continued,  while  a  flickering 
moonbeam  brought  out  the  aggravated  expression  of  a 
countenance  naturally  sinister,  "  that  you  are  pledged, 
known  through  me.  If  our  party  succeed,  and  suc 
cess  is  almost  as  certain  as  that  the  skies  are  above 
us,  your  mother  will  be  elevated  to  the  rank  she  de 
serves.  If,  however,  you  stop  in  this  movement,  and 
I  betray  you,  as  I  swear  to  heaven  I  will,  she  will  be 
implicated,  for  who  will  believe,  boys  as  you  are,  that 
you  act  in  this  fearful  plot  voluntarily  ?  " 

Sad  it  is  to  unloose  the  first  strong  link  of  filial 
sympathy,  when  no  contact  with  the  world  has 
dimmed  the  brightness  and  beauty  of  the  chain.  How 
often  through  the  long  day  that  followed  that  night, 
tears  started  to  Lorenzo's  eyes,  and  groans,  in  the 
solitude  of  his  chamber,  burst  from  Ferdinand's 
heart ! 

Darkness  came  —  how  unlike  the  starry  nights  of 
innocent  days.  Every  wind  seem  to  murmur,  every 
leaf  swell  the  word,  treachery,  treachery.  Their 
mother  slept,  • — their  beautiful  and  good  mother,  who 
had  nursed  them  at  her  breast,  who  had  watched,  not 
betrayed  their  slumbers,  who  had  taught  their  lips  to 
pray  against  temptation.  The  cabinet  to  which  the 


62  THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS. 

stranger  referred  was  in  a  dressing-room  adjoining 
her  sleeping  apartment.  They  went  together  with 
the  hurried  step  of  young  deception.  As  they  passed 
her  door  the  moonbeams  revealed  her  form  ;  they 
faltered  —  a  voice  low  but  thrilling  was  heard  beneath 
the  casement, — "trust,  secrecy,"  it  said.  They  de 
layed  no  longer ;  the  spring  yielded  to  their  touch, 
and  the  paper  was  soon  'grasped  with  eagerness  by 
the  stranger's  hand. 

A  few  weeks  rolled  away.  Rumors  were  abroad 
of  danger  to  the  state.  Many  individuals  were 
seized  on  suspicion  of  conspiracy.  Rosalba  knew  not 
why,  but  there  seemed  somewhat  like  a  blight  on  her 
once  cheerful  household.  A  haughty  defiance  sat 
on  Ferdinand's  brow  as  he  read  the  papers  of  the  day, 
while  the  healthy  glow  on  Lorenzo's  cheek  faded,  or 
a  sudden  flush  threw  up  at  times  a  transient  coloring. 
Rosalba  watched  the  boys  as  a  mother  will  watch  the 
casket  where  her  heart's  treasures  are  enshrined. 
She  felt  that  the  bitter  moment  had  come,  when  pa 
rental  sympathy  was  unasked,  when  the  moorings 
of  youthful  confidence  were  severed,  and  the  barque 
thrust  forth  on  life's  wide  sea  alone.  She  stood  like 
a  wintry  tree  deserted  by  sunshine. 

There  had  been  a  tranquil  day,  undisturbed  by  ru 
mor  or  apprehension ;  and  at  twilight  Rosalba  and  her 


THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS.  63 

sons  sat  in  their  favorite  bower.  Something  of  the 
lovely  confidence  of  the  past  was  restored.  Lorenzo 
leaned  with  his  arm  thrown  around  the  neck  of  his 
mother,  and  Ferdinand  threw  himself  on  the  turf  at 
her  feet,  his  flashing  eyes  softened  by  her  gentle 
smiles. 

"  How  like  your  father  you  are  growing,"  said  she 
as  she  pressed  her  lips  to  his  polished  forehead. 

"  I  shall  be  jealous,  mother,"  said  Lorenzo.  "  I 
call  such  kisses  mine," — and  he  turned  her  cheek 
with  his  hand  until  it  came  in  contact  with  his  own. 

They  were  interrupted  by  strange  voices,  and  sud 
denly  there  stood  before  the  group,  several  officers  of 
police,  who  arrested  the  boys  as  prisoners  of  state. 
Rosalba  sat  for  a  moment  like  one  in  a  dream. 

"  This  is  some  strange  mistake,"  at  length  she  said 
to  them.  "  These  are  mere  children,  and  have 
scarcely  ever  wandered  from  my  side." 

The  men  showed  their  orders  —  they  were  de 
finite —  the  individuals  could  not  be  mistaken;  the 
charge  was  conspiracy. 

Rosalba  turned  from  the  men  and  wildly  urged 
the  boys  to  assert  their  innocence.  Her  heart  sank 
within  her  at  their  statue-like  silence.  The  move 
ments  of  revolutionary  periods  are  rapid  and  decided. 


64  THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS. 

They  were  conveyed  to  prison,  before  her  eyes,  and 
sentenced  to  death. 

Rosalba  hastened  to  the  constituted  authorities,  and 
with  tears  and  prayers  implored  their  pardon.  The 
answer  was,  that  one  could  be  saved,  she  might  choose 
between  them. 

She  repaired  to  the  prison,  broken-hearted.  They 
were  in  different  cells.  As  she  entered  the  first,  the 
light  through  the  grating  fell  strongly  on  Ferdinand, 
and  now  flashed  forth  to  her  sight  in  stronger  lines 
the  likeness  to  his  father.  Those  deep  full  eyes  were 
his  ;  that  ivory  forehead  and  the  crisp  retreating  curls 
that  showed  its  strong  development,  were  his ;  the 
compressed  lip  and  manly  bearing  were  his,  and  his 
too  the  smile  which  was  so  soon  to  be  extinguished 
forever.  She  sank  into  his  arms.  Ferdinand  sup 
ported  her  to  his  wretched  pallet,  kissed  her  cold 
cheek  upon  which  big  tears  fell  fast ;  twined  his  arms 
around  her,  and  bade  her  be  comforted. 

"  Comfort !  oh  God,  comfort !  "  shrieked  the  widow, 
in  the  first  paroxysm  of  hopeless  wretchedness; 
"  where,  where  but  in  the  grave  with  my  children  ?  " 
and  hiding  her  face  in  the  bosom  of  her  son,  her  sobs 
rose  so  strong  and  wildly,  that  he  thought  her  heart 
would  break. 


THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS.  65 

"  Listen  to  me,  mother,  listen  to  me,"  he  said  in 
tremulous  tones,  "  and  I  will  tell  you  what  will  com 
fort  you  :  the  memory  of  what  a  good  parent  you 
have  been,  from  the  first  moment  I  nestled  in  your 
arms,  until  this  dark  hour.  How  you  have  warned 
and  guided  us,  and  sacrificed  your  wishes  to  ours ! 
Your  have  been  a  true  mother  to  me,  God  knows. 
You  have  been  like  an  angel  watching  my  path,  my 
own,  own  mother,"  and  as  he  said  this  he  knelt  and 
bowed  his  head  to  her  lap  and  hid  his  face  there. 

She  spoke  not,  she  even  shook  him  ofFin  her  agony ; 
the  waves  were  rolling  over  her  soul,  and  the  life-star 
was  gone. 

He  drew  her  gently  towards  him  and  soothing 
ly  pressed  her  hands  in  his.  "  Since  I  left  you, 
mother,  I  have  had  a  dream ;  a  strange  but  sweet 
dream.  I  have  never  thought  much  of  Heaven  be-  i 
fore,  but  I  am  sure  I  was  there  in  my  dream.  We 
were  all  there,  all  four  ;  and  you  and  father  were  so 
young  and  beautiful !  A  wreath  was  on  your  heads, 
and  a  light  around  you,  and  you  seemed  too  glorious  W- 
to  Lorenzo  and  me,  until  we  saw  your  lips  move,  and 
heard  you  say,  '  my  children ! '  Oh  mother,  there 
were  no  tears  in  that  Heaven,  no  death,"  and  as  he 
said  this  his  voice  faltered,  a  shudder  went  over  his 
frame,  and  he  was  silent. 


66  THE   YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS. 

"  Death,  death  !  "  almost  screamed  Kosalba  ;  "  why 
did  you  not  die  in  your  cradle  ?  I  could  have  closed 
your  eyes  softly,  and  crossed  your  small  hands  on 
your  breast,  and  strewn  your  grave  with  flowers. 
Now,  now" there  was  a  pause  of  passionate  sor 
row. 

Ferdinand  knelt  still  at  his  mother's  feet,  and 
gazed  in  her  face  with  a  look  of  pleading  earnestness. 
"  Mother,  dear  mother,  for  mercy's  sake  be  composed, 
or  I  shall  go  wild  too ;"  and  he  pressed  his  hands 
to  his  head.  "  Mother,  you  forget  that  I  must  be 
strengthened  for  this  great  trial,  and  our  poor  Lo 
renzo  too." 

Rosalba  turned  on  him  such  a  gaze  of  mournful 
admiration  as  we  give  the  meteor  darting  to  sudden 
extinguishment.  Lorenzo's  name  subdued  her;  it 
was  not  a  moment  for  words,  but  turning  from  Fer 
dinand  she  knelt  before  a  rude  crucifix  inserted  in  the 
wall,  offered  a  silent  prayer,  and  kissing  him,  passed 
to  the  cell  of  his  brother. 

As  she  entered,  Lorenzo  rushed  to  her  with  such  a 
scream  of  joy  and  fear,  that  the  empty  vaults  sent 
back  the  sound. 

"  You  have  come  to  save  me,  mother,"  he  cried. 
"  I  knew  you  would  not  let  your  poor  boy  die." 

Rosalba  turned  aside  in  agony.     He  followed  her 


THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS.  67 

beseechingly.  "  Look  at  me,  mother.  I  am  your 
own,  your  youngest  one.  Here,"  said  he,  throwing 
back  the  glossy  hair  that  shaded  his  features,  "  here 
is  your  likeness.  My  father  loved  me  because  I 
looked  like  you ;  you  would  not  have  me  die ; " 
and  he  threw  his  arms  around  her  neck,  and  nestled 
as  a  bird  beneath  the  parent-wing. 

Rosalba  sat  upon  the  damp  floor,  and  took  the  boy 
to  her  heart  as  in  the  days  of  infancy;  she  wiped 
away  his  gushing  tears,  and  uttered  soft  low  tones  of 
endearment. 

"  You  will  save  me,  then,  my  mother  ? "  he  asked, 
wildly. 

"  I  can  save  one  of  you,"  she  whispered  almost 
inaudibly.  "  The  sentence  is,  that  one  of  you  may 
live,  if  I  will  choose  him." 

Lorenzo  sprang  from  her  arms,  and  threw  himself 
at  her  feet.  "  You  will  save  me,  me"  he  cried  vehe 
mently.  "  I  am  too  young  to  die.  Mother,  my 
heart  will  break  with  terror  if  you  say  I  must  die. 
O  mother,  I  think  of  it,  I  dream  of  it.  I  am  afraid  I 
am  crazy,  mother ;  save  me,  save  your  poor,  poor 
Lorenzo,"  —  and  he  clung  to  her  with  a  piercing  look 
of  entreaty. 

The  agonized  mother  turned  upon  him  with  a  kind 
of  fierceness,  and  almost  shouted  in  his  ear, — 


DO  THE    YOUNG    CONSPIRATORS. 

"  You  say  that  Ferdinand  is  to  die.  /  will  it  not. 
Thank  God  it  rests  not  with  me.  I  am  guiltless," 
and  she  stamped  the  narrow  cell  with  almost  maniac 
footsteps. 

"  I  said  it  not,  mother,"  said  the  boy,  mournfully. 
"  Ferdinand  must  live,  and  I  will  go.  It  is  fearful, 
but  I  must  go,"  —  and  with  a  frightened  look  he 
swooned  away. 

Three  days  and  nights  Rosalba  passed  in  alternate 
visits  to  her  children.  She  ate  no  food,  she  slept 
not.  The  keeper's  eyes  moistened  as  she  passed  to 
and  fro.  Sometimes  in  the  horror  of  despair  she 
threw  herself  down  in  the  dark  passage,  and  beat  the 
impassive  stones  with  her  delicate  hands ;  sometimes 
she  knelt,  and  gazed  on  her  crucifix  as  if  asking  aid 
from  heaven ;  now  low  muttered  sounds  escaped  her, 
as  if  her  reason  reeled.  She  shed  no  tears  —  suffer 
ing  had  gone  deeper  than  their  fount. 

On  the  fourth  day  an  eager  crowd  gathered  to  the 
execution  of  two  youths.  At  the  closing  moment, 
when  there  was  a  hush  in  the  multitude,  a  shriek 
went  up  from  among  the  spectators  so  piercing  and 
wild  and  unearthly,  that  many  a  sleeper  that  night 
started  in  his  dreams  as  he  remembered  it.  When 
the  populace  dispersed,  a  senseless  female  form  was 
discovered  closely  enveloped  in  a  veil.  The  pulse  of 


ROSALBA'S  LAMENT.  69 

life  had  ceased  to  beat  in  that  fair  and  gentle  bosom, 
on  which  was  discovered  the  miniature  likeness  of 
two  beautiful  boys  embracing,  and  a  braid  of  dark 
hair  encircling  the  name  of  Rosalba  di  Loria. 


ROSALBA'S  LAMENT. 

I  cannot  tell  —  I  dare  not  tell, 

On  which,  the  fearful  choice  shall  rest ; 
They  both  have  frolick'd  'neath  my  gaze, 

They  both  were  nurtur'd  at  my  breast. 

My  Ferdinand !  Nay,  look  not  thus 
In  silence  on  thy  mother's  face  ! 

Speak,  speak,  my  patient  boy,  and  break 
That  spell  of  melancholy  grace. 

And  yet,  thy  shrill  and  startling  cry, 
Lorenzo,  cuts  thy  mother's  soul ; 

That  pleading  voice  I  cannot  bear,  — 
Thy  dreadful  eloquence  control. 

Thy  wooing  smile,  thine  eye  of  blue, 
How  oft  thy  father  call'd  them  mine  ! 

Can  I  give  up  the  look  he  prais'd  ? 
Can  I  that  eye  of  love  resign  ? 

My  boy  !  my  boy  !  I  thought  that  thou 
Shouldst  smooth  my  pillow  at  its  close  j 

I  hoped  thy  kind  and  soothing  hand 
Would  rock  life's  cradle  of  repose. 


70  ROSALBA'S  LAMENT. 

And  thou,  my  eldest,  with  thy  brow, 
And  eagle  look  of  high  emprize, 

I  dream'd  that  thou  wouldst  clear  my  path, 
And  guard  the  way  where  danger  lies. 

That  brow,  that  look  —  thy  father's  look, 
Oh  !  no  j  I  cannot  bid  thee  die. 

Would  they  had  wrapt  me  in  his  shroud, 
How  tranquilly  I  there  could  lie  ! 

Go,  boys  —  away !  I  will  not  choose  ; 

God  must  resume  the  lives  he  gave  — 
For  me,  I  bear  a  breaking  heart, 

Which  soon  will  lay  me  in  the  grave. 


JAIRUS'S    DAUGHTER.  71 


JAIRUS'S  DAUGHTER. 

They  have  watched  her  last  and  quivering  breath, 

And  the  maiden's  soul  has  flown  ; 
They  have  wrapt  her  in  the  robes  of  death, 

And  laid  her,  dark  and  lone. 

But  the  mother  casts  a  look  behind, 

And  weeps  for  that  fallen  flower  ; 
Nay,  start  not  —  'twas  the  passing  wind, 

Those  limbs  have  lost  their  power. 

And  tremble  not  at  that  cheek  of  snow, 

Over  which  the  faint  light  plays  ; 
'Tis  only  the  curtain's  crimson  glow, 

Which  thus  deceives  thy  gaze. 

Didst  thou  not  close  that  expiring  eye. 

And  feel  the  soft  pulse  decay  ? 
And  did  not  thy  lips  receive  the  sigh, 

That  bore  her  soul  away  ? 

She  lies  on  her  couch,  all  pale  and  hush'd, 

And  heeds  not  thy  gentle  tread, 
And  is  still  as  the  spring-flower  by  traveler  crush'd, 

Which  dies  on  its  snowy  bed. 

Her  mother  has  passed  from  that  lonely  room, 

And  the  maid  is  still  and  pale, 
Her  ivory  hand  is  cold  as  the  tomb, 

And  blue  is  the  stiffen'd  nail. 


72  JAIRUS'S    DAUGHTER. 

Her  mother  retires  with  folded  arms, 

And  her  head  is  bent  in  wo  ; 
Her  heart  is  shut  to  joys  or  harms, 

No  tear  attempts  to  flow. 

But  listen !  what  name  salutes  her  ear  ? 

It  comes  to  a  heart  of  stone  — 
"  Jesus,"  she  cries,  "  has  no  power  here, 

My  daughter's  spirit  has  flown  !  " 

He  leads  the  way  to  that  cold  white  couch, 
And  bends  o'er  that  senseless  form  ; 

She  breathes  !  she  breathes  !  at  his  hallow'd  touch 
The  maiden's  hand  is  warm. 

And  the  fresh  blood  comes  with  its  roseate  hue, 
And  life  spreads  quick  through  her  frame, 

Her  head  is  raised,  and  her  step  is  true, 
And  she  murmurs  her  mother's  name. 


THE    BASHFUL    LECTURER.  73 


MR.  NIBLO, 

THE    BASHFUL   LECTURER. 

FROM  childhood  I  was  a  passionate  lover  of  science. 
I  tore  my  drum  to  pieces  to  examine  its  internal 
mysteries ;  my  kites  were  the  envy  and  wonder  of 
my  schoolmates,  so  trimly  were  they  cut  and  so 
nicely  balanced ;  and  as  they  soared  above  all  others 
I  felt  an  exaltation,  a  prophecy  of  eminence.  My 
greatest  delight  was  in  .chemistry ;  it  even  rivaled 
the  love  I  felt  for  a  fair  little  girl,  a  blue-eyed  neigh 
bor,  who  loved  me  in  spite  of  my  soiled  face  and  dyed 
fingers.  She  was  a  singular  contrast  to  the  young 
experimenter,  whom  she  occasionally  honored  with  a 
visit  in  his  would-be  laboratory ;  for  there  was  a 
purity  in  her  air  as  if  no  stain  of  earth  could  dwell 
on  her;  the  rose-tint  on  her  cheek  paled  off  to  a 
transparent  white  around  her  chin  and  throat;  her 
penciled  eye-brows  lay  in  light  arches  on  her  serene 
forehead ;  her  flaxen  hair  fell  like  a  fleecy  cloud  over 
her  cambric  dress  which  emulated  snow,  and  her 
hands  —  how  like  unsunned  alabaster  they  gleamed 
6 


74  THE    BASHFUL    LECTURER. 

beside  mine  !     Her  teacher  once  described  her  thus. 
I  was  jealous  of  that  man. 

"  Behold  the  pupil-nymph  to  me  consigned, 
The  honored  guardian  of  her  opening  mind, 
In  all  the  bloom  and  sweetness  of  eleven  — 
Health,  spirit,  grace,  intelligence  and  heaven  ! 
With  beauty  that  so  ravishingly  warms, 
It  seems  the  focus  of  all  nature's  charms. 
Yes,  rival  rays  come  rushing  from  the  sky, 
Contending  which  shall  glisten  in  her  eye, 
And  anxious  zephyrs  play  her  lips  around, 
Soft  suing  to  be  moulded  into  sound. 
While  still,  from  each  exuberant  motion,  darts 
A  winning  multitude  of  artless  arts. 
And  then,  such  softness  with  such  smartness  joined, 
So  pure  a  heart,  with  such  a  knowing  mind  • 
So  very  docile  in  her  wildest  mood, 
Bad  by  mistake,  and  without  effort  good  ; 
So  broken-hearted  when  my  frown  dismays, 
So  humbly  thankful  when  I  please  to  praise, 
So  circumspect,  so  fearful  to  offend, 
And  at  a  glance  so  ready  to  attend ; 
With  memory  strong  and  with  perception  bright, 
Her  words  and  deeds  so  uniformly  right, 
That  scarce  one  foible  disconcerts  my  aims, 
And  care  and  trouble  —  do  not  name  their  names  ! 
But  yes,  I  have  one  anxious  sacred  care, 
I  have  one  ceaseless  burden  of  my  prayer, 
'T  is  this  :  Great  God,  0  teach  me  to  be  just 
To  this  dear  charge  committed  to  my  trust !  " 

Well,  this  bright  creature  who  could  awaken  such 
a  burst  of  enthusiasm  in  a  pedagogue,  was  the  chosen 


THE    BASHFUL   LECTURER.  75 

one  of  my  boyhood,  but  I  was  destined  to  lose  her 
early.  It  was  her  habit  frequently  to  peep  into  my 
laboratory  and  ask  her  sweet  questions  about  the 
mysteries  of  my  craft.  One  day  she  advanced  fur 
ther  than  usual ;  tucking  aside  her  snowy  dress,  and 
stepping  on  tiptoe  for  fear  of  soiling  her  trim  white 
stockings,  she  stood  amid  my  crucibles  as  unharmed 
as  asbestos  in  a  flame,  her  light  waving  hair  falling 
backward,  and  her  blue  eyes  up-turned  in  pretty 
curiosity.  I  had  been  preparing  oxygen  gas  from 
chlorate  of  potash,  in  a  small  gJass  retort  over  an 
Argand  lamp,  by  which  method  it  can  be  obtained 
much  purer  than  by  any  other.  The  operation  was 
successfully  proceeding,  and  as  the  steady  flame  of 
the  lamp  continued  to  evolve  the  gas,  it  gradually 
escaped  through  the  neck  of  the  retort,  and  rose  in 
brilliant  globules  under  the  water  in  which  the  re 
ceiver  stood.  Intensely  occupied  in  watching  the 
decomposition  of  the  salt,  I  started  at  the  sweet  tone 
of  her  silvery  voice,  and  as  I  eagerly  advanced  towards 
her,  with  my  eyes  grimmed  and  bleared  with  smoke 
and  heat,  and  extended  my  stained  hand  to  welcome 
her,  the  flame  unnoticed  rose  too  high,  the  glass 
shivered  into  fragments,  and  the  hot  contents  fell 
hissing  around  her.  She  shrank  back  to  avoid  the 
broken  pieces,  when  a  curl  of  her  beautiful  hair 


76  THE    BASHFUL    LECTURER. 

caught  in  the  blaze  of  a  lamp  near  her.  My  first 
impulse  was  to  throw  over  her  a  diluted  solution  of 
nitrate  of  silver,  (indelible  ink.) 

The  flame  was  instantly  extinguished,  but  such  an 
object  as  the  poor  child  presented !  The  fast  black 
ening  liquid  fell  dripping  from  her  fair  locks,  and  ran 
down  her  face  and  garments  even  to  the  little  foot 
that  had  just  before  trod  so  daintily.  The  lovely 
girl's  self-possession  vanished,  and  roaring  with  terror 
she  flew  from  the  apartment,  alarming  the  neighbor 
hood  with  screams.  This  was  her  last  visit  to  my 
laboratory,  or  even  my  home ;  she  became  shy  and 
avoided  me.  I  soon  entered  college,  and  when  I 
returned,  four  years  after,  my  blue-eyed  beauty  was  a 
bride. 

My  absorption  in  technical  books  began  to  give  an 
awkward  and  restrained  tone  to  my  manners  and 
conversation,  while  a  want  of  sympathy  with  those 
around  me,  made  me  unsocial ;  a  burning  love  of 
science,  however,  and  a  hope  that  I  might  individually 
enlighten  the  world,  buoyed  me  up  with  a  silent  kind 
of  vanity.  With  these  feelings,  I  saw  my  home. 
What  wonder  that  I  should  rush  to  my  little  labora 
tory  with  intense  interest.  Parental  fondness  had 
kept  the  spot  sacred ;  there  stood  the  furnace  and  the 
crucibles,  and  placed  neatly  on  one  side  of  the  apart- 


THE    BASHFUL   LECTURER.  77 

ment,  the  nameless  articles  I  had  used  as  expedients 
in  my  experiments,  abstracted  from  the  kitchen  and 
store-room,  for  which  I  had  been  sometimes  punished 
and  sometimes  praised.  There  was  the  very  spot, 
too,  on  which  my  first  love  had  been  inundated  with 
that  fatal  nitrate. 

I  smiled,  but  it  was  sadly  ;  and  as  I  began  in  earnest 
my  more  manly  and  scientific  arrangements,  I  almost 
hoped  such  blue  eyes  as  hers  might  look  on  me  again. 
But  I  soon  forgot  that  vision ;  and  from  that  period 
my  whole  soul  seemed  centered  in  this  apartment. 
I  rushed  to  it  with  the  first  dawn  of  light,  and  the 
bright  lamps  of  heaven  were  forgotten  for  its  fitful 
rays.  Such  strong  and  passionate  love  cannot  long 
keep  within  a  narrow  channel;  it  will  burst  forth,  and 
fertilize  or  destroy.  Without  power  to  utter  in  con 
versation  the  deep  stirrings  of  my  thoughts,  I  resolved 
to  lecture,  to  throw  myself  on  the  public ;  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  should  be  stimulated  by  numbers,  and  I 
was  confident  that  in  a  mixed  audience  some  hearts 
would  beat  responsive  to  the  enlightened  hopes  of 
mine.  Confirmed  in  this  opinion  by  the  advice  of 
my  family,  I  commenced  writing  a  course  of  lectures 
on  chemistry.  I  had  never  tried  my  powers  of  elocu 
tion  beyond  the  college  walls,  and  the  themes  there 
having  no  immediate  interest  for  me,  were  sufficient 


78  THE    BASHFUL    LECTURER. 

excuse  to  my  mind  for  any  deficiency  of  grace  or 
power.  The  moment  I  began  to  write,  an  ambitious 
thrill  ran  through  me,  and  I  poured  out  on  paper 
paragraphs  that  I  thought  would  go  with  the  force  of 
light  and  sound  through  my  audience. 

The  morning  of  the  day  on  which  my  introductory 
lecture  was  to  be  delivered  arrived.  I  read  and  re 
read  the  advertisement  inserted  by  my  father,  until  I 
trembled  and  glowed  like  a  girl.  I  revised  my  lecture 
for  the  last  time,  and  inserted  here  and  there  slips  of 
paper  containing  additional  notes. 

The  evening  came,  and  I  stood  before  a  crowded 
audience  of  partial  townsmen.  If  my  readers  are 
interested  in  this  moment,  they  will  like  to  know  my 
appearance.  I  was  twenty-four  years  of  age,  spare 
and  of  middle  size,  pale,  with  somewhat  sharp  fea 
tures  ;  my  eyes  were  always  thought  remarkable ; 
they  were  of  a  light  blue,  of  a  singularly  piercing 
expression,  so  penetrating  that  they  often  attracted 
attention  in  a  crowd,  and  yet,  strange  to  tell,  I  could 
never  fix  them  on  a  woman's  face.  I  felt  like  a 
startled  deer  when  a  woman's  eye  met  mine ;  but  this 
peculiarity  was  compensated  by  quickness  of  motion 
that  made  me  see  without  seeming  to  observe.  My 
hands  were  delicately  formed,  and  my  thin  hair  was 
scattered  on  a  high  forehead.  I  had  read  my  lecture 


THE    BASHFUL    LECTURER.  79 

frequently  aloud  in  my  own  apartment.  I.,  had  half 
fancied  that  the  walls  shook  under  the  power  of  my 
language,  and  that  the  spirits  of  Bacon,  Priestley, 
Lavoisier  and  Black  were  bending  down  in  angelic 
sympathy.  Thus  prepared,  I  stood  before  the  audi 
ence,  but  in  how  different  a  frame  !  As  I  glanced 
round,  I  felt  myself  the  merest  atom.  I  forgot  the 
bow  that  I  had  made  twenty  times  before  my  mirror, 
my  eyes  began  to  swim,  my  teeth  to  chatter;  the 
rustling  of  the  first  blank  leaf  that  I  turned  sounded 
like  thunder.  I  began  to  speak ;  my  voice  seemed  to 
have  descended  two  feet  in  my  system.  I  lisped,  I 
mumbled  out  one  page,  two  pages,  without  raising 
my  eyes ;  then  came  a  reference  to  one  of  my  inter 
locutory  notes ;  it  had  slipped  out,  I  could  not  find  it. 
In  searching  for  it  I  lost  my  place,  began  three  wrong 
sentences  and  attempted  to  extemporize.  It  was  in 
vain,  and  crushing  my  manuscript  in  my  hand  I  re 
treated  from  the  hall,  hurried  through  the  streets,  and 
locked  myself  in  my  own  chamber.  There  I  trod  the 
floor  like  a  frantic  man,  until  tears,  gushing  freely  as 
a  school-boy's,  came  to  my  relief.  I  left  my  native 
town  the  next  day. 

But  better  hopes  came  over  me.  I  condemned 
myself  for  attempting  a  lecture  without  experiments  ; 
they  would  have  aided  me,  I  thought.  Attention 


80  THE    BASHFUL   LECTURER. 

would  have  been  drawn  away  from  myself  to  them, 
and  I  gradually  came  to  the  resolution  of  pronouncing 
the  same  course  of  lectures  among  strangers,  with 
whom  I  nattered  myself  I  should  be  more  at  ease. 
With  this  view  I  visited  a  neighboring  city,  and, 
without  delivering  letters  or  seeking  patronage,  issued 
an  advertisement.  Of  all  seemingly  simple  things, 
an  advertisement  is  the  most  difficult  and  perplexing. 
To  advance  one's  claims  sufficiently  without  an  air 
of  self-importance,  to  combine  one's  meaning  in  a  few 
words,  and  those  few  the  right  ones,  is  no  small  task. 
Few  who  glance  over  the  columns  of  a  daily  print, 
are  aware  of  the  waste  of  paper,  the  biting  of  nails, 
and  the  knitting  of  brows  that  have  attended  the  con 
cocting  of  those  concise  looking  squares. 

My  advertisement  appeared. 

Mr,  Niblo,  from  Homertown,  respectfully  informs 
the  inhabitants  of  Cityville,  that  he  proposes  com 
mencing  a  course  of  Lectures  on  Chemistry  and 
kindred  subjects,  illustrated  by  various  interesting 
experiments,  beginning  with  an  introductory  essay, 
on  Thursday  evening,  which  will  be  gratuitous. 

Here  was  no  trick  or  cant,  no  forced  comet-tail  of 
patrons'  names  following  the  announcement.  My 
hearers  would  come  from  the  pure  love  of  science. 
I  breathed  hard,  but  commenced  conveying  my  appa- 


THE    BASHFUL   LECTURER.  81 

ratus  to  the  lecturing  hall.  On  the  way  I  broke  a 
retort  of  great  value  and  rarity.  The  two  next  days 
were  employed  in  vain  endeavors  to  supply  its  place. 
Every  lecturer  will  sympathize  with  me  in  the  horror 
I  felt  at  the  prospect  of  saying  to  my  audience,  in  the 
midst  of  a  brilliant  experiment,  "  this  should  be  so 
and  so,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  instead  of  "  this  is." 
In  the  meantime  I  was  stimulated  and  comforted  by 
the  daughter  of  rny  hostess,  an  intelligent  girl,  who 
possessed  that  class  of  frank  bright  manners,  that 
save  a  bashful  man  an  effort,  and  insensibly  put  him 
at  his  ease. 

Lucia  Breck  had  just  past  her  girlhood,  without 
laying  aside  her  simplicity.  Her  feelings  and  thoughts 
gushed  out  like  a  full  stream ;  they  were  scarcely 
wise  thoughts,  but  I  delighted  in  their  freshness,  and 
if  ever  she  bordered  on  silliness,  a  just  taste  brought 
her  back  again.  Her  eyes  were  dark  and  glittering, 
and  her  brown  hair  lay  smoothly  on  her  forehead. 
Her  rounded  form  spoke  of  youth  and  health,  and  her 
cheek  was  mottled  with  "  eloquent  blood."  Impetuous 
and  self-confident,  she  sometimes  startled  those  who 
loved  her,  who  forgot  how  soon  the  world  trammels 
the  exuberance  which  to  me  was  delicious  from  its 
spontaneousness. 

I  scarcely  knew  how,  but  Lucia  was  often  by  my 


82  THE    BASHFUL    LECTURER. 

side,  aiding  me  in  my  preparations,  and  chatting 
away  without  looking  at  me.  Her  needle  was  usually 
in  her  hand,  and  she  seemed  to  talk  as  much  to  that 
as  to  me.  Thursday  evening  arrived.  Lucia,  sweet 
creature,  sprang  about  like  a  fawn ;  her  eyes  glittered 
with  expression,  and  her  jests  and  laugh  rang  out 
like  silver  bells.  We  went  with  her  mother  to  the 
hall.  I  had  visited  it  repeatedly  by  daylight,  but 
never  at  night.  As  we  entered  we  were  struck  with 
"  the  dim  disastrous  twilight."  A  few  tallow  candles, 
like  sleepy  sentinels,  were  placed  in  tin  hoops  against 
the  walls,  and  two  ornamented  the  desk  where  I  was 
to  stand.  Who  has  not  felt  the  chill  of  a  badly  lighted 
apartment,  as  the  forms  glide  in  and  out  like  spectres  ? 
As  it  was  too  late  to  remedy  the  evil,  my  object  was 
to  attract  immediate  attention  to  the  experiments. 
The  stillness  was  awful,  broken  only  by  the  tinkling 
of  the  glasses  in  my  trembling  hand. 

"  Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  I,  "  observe  this 
receiver.  It  is  filled  with  a  very  peculiar  gas.  It  has 
hitherto  borne  the  name  of  oxymuriatic  acid  gas,  but 
you  will  perceive  its  pale  yellow  green  color,  which 
has  gained  it  from  Sir  Humphrey  Davy,  the  name  of 
chlorine.  I  shall  insert  this  small  piece  of  phospho 
rus  into  the  vessel,  and  you  will  perceive  an  instanta 
neous  and  brilliant  combustion."  Alas  for  me,  I  had 


THE    BASHFUL    LECTURER.  83 

forgotten  in  my  hurry  that  chlorine  is  rapidly  absorbed 
by  cold  water,  and  I  had  been  so  long  detained  by  the 
slow  dropping  in  of  the  audience,  that  the  water  with 
which  I  had  filled  the  pneumatic  cisterns  was  entirely 
chilled.  I  might  have  noticed  that  the  gas  had  dis 
appeared,  but  for  the  dimness  of  the  light.  Ignorant 
of  this,  and  too  much  embarrassed  to  feel  if  the  water 
were  warm  or  not.  I  desperately  inserted  the  slight 
stick  of  phosphorus,  expecting  the  usual  brilliancy  to 
ensue,  which  I  had  a  thousand  times  admired.  In 
vain,  dark  and  quiet  all  remained.  This  was  a  sad 
failure.  My  assumed  confidence  vanished,  and  I 
stammered  out  a  few  words,  endeavoring  to  explain. 
The  audience,  disappointed  as  they  were,  were  too 
good  natured  to  manifest  any  strong  signs  of  disap 
probation. 

I  determined  then  to  recover  my  fast  sinking  credit, 
by  a  very  beautiful  and  critical  experiment  of  the 
union  of  the  gases  which  are  the  constituents  of 
water.  Oxygen  and  hydrogen  gas  in  their  proper 
proportions  had  been  prepared  beforehand,  in  a  tall 
glass  tube.  The  wire  from  the  Voltaic  battery  had 
been  introduced,  and  I  nattered  myself  there  could  be 
no  failure  here.  Again  I  called  the  attention  of  my 
audience. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  wish  to  show  you  an 


84  THE    BASHFUL    LECTURER. 

interesting  and  exceedingly  beautiful  experiment; 
you  know  what  are  the  constituent  parts  of  water, 
they  are  mixed  in  this  tube  " —  (here  I  held  up  the 
tube  apparently  empty,  but  filled  with  the  invisible 
gases,)  "  in  their  proper  proportions  and  gaseous  form ; 
I  shall  explode  them  by  a  spark  from  the  battery,  and 
you  will  see  a  small  portion  of  water  produced  by 
the  reunion  of  the  gases."  Unfortunately,  in  re 
placing  the  tube,  I  permitted  the  gases  to  make  their 
escape.  Unconscious  of  this,  I  applied  my  freshly 
charged  Leyden  vial  to  the  Eudiemeter.  A  spark 
shot  from  one  wire  to  the  other  across  the  tube,  but 
no  explosion  followed. 

The  audience  looked  and  listened  with  all  their 
might;  nothing  was  visible  but  empty  vessels;  my 
trembling  touch  had  caused  the  gas  to  escape,  and 
the  experiment  was  a  nullity.  Some  lecturers  pos 
sess  the  happy  faculty  of  filling  up  such  awful  failures 
with  fluent  remarks  or  jests  ;  but  I  was  overwhelmed, 
and  as  the  tube  freed  from  its  pent-up  gas  shook  in 
my  trembling  hand,  my  heart  sank  within  me,  and  I 
dashed  it  away.  Just  at  this  crisis  T  heard  a  hys 
terical  giggle  from  Lucia.  I  was  angry  enough  to 
have  put  her  into  the  air  pump. 

Utterly  defeated  in  this  effort,  I  turned  my  atten 
tion  to  the  electrical  machine.  My  audience  gath- 


THE    BASHFUL   LECTURER.  85 

ered  in  a  circle  hand  and  hand.  I  applied  the  battery. 
Not  a  start  —  not  an  exclamation  !  My  wires  were 
as  innocent  as  lambs ;  my  audience  looked  at  me  with 
eyes  between  curiosity  and  ridicule,  and  retired  to 
their  seats,  and  again  Lucia's  involuntary  laugh  met 
my  ear.  At  this  crisis  one  of  those  annoyances, 
commonly  called  a  thief,  took  possession  of  one  of 
my  tallow  candles.  It  sank  rapidly,  until  the  flame 
reached  the  paper  which  enveloped  it  at  the  socket. 
I  had  no  extinguisher,  and  was  obliged  to  stop  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence  to  puff  and  blow  at  the  increas 
ing  blaze.  I  forbear  to  describe  the  utter  forlornity 
of  my  feelings  and  appearance,  as  I  stood  before  the 
upshooting  rays  of  that  dying  candle !  I  dismissed 
my  audience,  and  almost  clutching  Lucia's  passive 
arm,  returned  home. 

It  was  necessary  that  an  effort  should  be  made  to 
secure  an  audience  for  the  next  lecture  after  this 
failure.  I  laid  aside  my  noble  disdain  of  patronage, 
and  examining  my  letters  of  introduction,  selected 
those  which  were  addressed  to  the  most  influential 
persons,  and  calling  on  them,  requested  their  advice. 
I  was  courteously  received  by  all,  and  allowed  to  use 
names  at  discretion.  Friendly  hands  greeted  me, 
and  cordial  bows  dismissed  me  with  wishes  and  pro 
phecies  of  success.  I  inserted  costly  advertisements 


86  THE    BASHFUL   LECTURER. 

with  the  formerly  despised  comet-tail  of  patrons,  and 
determining  that  the  hall  should  be  well  lit,  spared 
no  pains  or  expense  for  the  perfect  illumination.  Lu 
cia  was  sure  that  all  would  go  off  well. 

"  You  wanted  nothing  but  light,"  said  she,  "  to 
have  made  the  last  lecture  capital ;  besides,  people 
knew  that  the  matter  of  an  introductory  lecture  will 
be  repeated  in  the  course,  and  they  are  less  anxious 

to  attend.  I  am  sure  I  saw  Mr. ,  and  Mr. , 

in  one  corner  on  Thursday,  but  then  it  was  so  dark. 
But  dear  Mr.  Niblo,  we  will  have  a  glorious  time  to 
morrow  ! " 

Sweet  Lucia ! 

The  evening  came.  I  started  with  Lucia  on  my 
arm,  ten  minutes  before  the  time.  We  saw  the  bril 
liant  lights  of  the  hall  sparkling  up  as  we  turned  the 
square,  and  they  burst  upon  us  as  we  entered  the  hall, 
while  the  polished  brass  of  my  apparatus  shone  in 
their  beams. 

"  Give  me  a  front  seat,"  whispered  Lucia,  "  where 
I  can  see  and  hear  without  being  crowded." 

I  seated  her,  and  went  behind  the  desk  to  look  for 
the  hundredth  time  if  all  was  in  order.  The  clock 
struck  eight,  the  appointed  hour.  No  one  appeared ; 
twice  I  was  deceived  by  the  door-keeper's  recon- 
noitering.  Quarter  past  eight.  Not  a  soul.  I  could 


THE    BASHFUL   LECTURER.  87 

not  look  at  Lucia.  Half-past  eight.  An  old  gentle 
man  entered  and  took  his  seat  at  a  distance.  He 
blew  his  nose.  Mercy,  how  it  reverberated !  Another 
quarter  of  an  hour  elapsed.  I  dismissed  the  old  gen 
tleman,  who  claimed  his  money  of  the  door-keeper, 
and  Lucia  almost  led  me  home. 

A  few  of  my  acquaintance  rallied  ;  they  knew  that 
my  expenses  had  been  great,  and  by  dint  of  purling 
and  appealing,  with  a  promise  that  I  should  exhibit 
some  transparences,  a  lecture  was  got  up  by  subscrip 
tion.  A  breeze  was  given  by  some  leading  people 
adding  their  names,  and  on  the  first  of  March,  18 — , 
I  stood  before  a  full  and  fashionable  audience.  My 
experiments  were  brilliant,  and  Lucia's  eyes  were  as 
bright  as  phosphorus.  Applause  ran  through  the 
appartment  at  my  success  ;  I  forgot  my  diffidence, 
threw  by  my  notes,  and  poured  forth  the  tribute  to 
science  which  had  been  burning  like  silent  fire  in  my 
bosom. 

"  And  now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  I  said,  in  a 
voice  of  unhesitating  dignity,  "  let  me  call  your  at 
tention  to  a  beautiful  experiment,  which  though  of 
secondary  importance  in  science,  is  still  attractive  like 
the  gem  which  glitters  over  the  brows  of  the  fair." 
With  this  flourish  I  directed  their  attention  to  an 
union  which  I  was  about  to  make  of  nitrate  of  am- 


88  THE    BASHFUL    LECTURER. 

monia  and  chlorine,  and  which  I  expected  would 
prove  a  very  beautiful  experiment,  but  which  requires 
peculiar  care  ;  for  after  being  together  for  some  time, 
a  highly  explosive  substance  forms,  which  detonates 
with  great  violence  upon  the  contact  of  any  oil  Un 
fortunately,  a  small  portion  of  oil  adhered  to  the  rod 
which  I  introduced,  and  a  most  terrible  explosion  fol 
lowed.  A  jar  of  sulphuretted  hydrogen  stood  near, 
and  its  contents  were  liberally  diffused,  filling  the 
room  with  appalling  odor. 

Splinters  of  glass  with  the  colored  mixture  spirted 
around  the  apartment.  In  an  instant  the  jetty  broad 
cloth  of  the  gentlemen,  and  the  rich  silk  of  the  ladies 
shared  a  common  fate ;  groans  of  fright  and  disgust, 
screams  and  laughter,  mingled  discordantly;  friend 
scarcely  recognized  friend,  as  the  vile  preparation  ad 
hered  to  their  faces.  I  flew  to  Lucia ;  her  new  bon 
net,  her  only  silk  frock  were  ruined.  As  we  walked 
home  in  silence,  her  good  nature  was  fairly  over 
come,  and  when  we  reached  the  door  she  flung  her 
self  angrily  from  my  arm,  exclaiming,  that  she 
"  wished  chemistry  was  in  the  Dead  Sea."  I  said 
Amen,  and  retreated  to  my  chamber  in  despair. 

#:  #  $c  X  $:  $:  $: 

I  am  far  from  wishing  by  the  above  narration  of 
my  calamitous  debut  as  a  lecturer,  to  intimidate 


THE    BASHFUL    LECTURER.  89 

others.  Many  years  have  rolled  away  since  that 
disastrous  experience,  and  crowded  audiences  have 
testified  to  my  success.  The  name  of  Dr.  Niblo  is 
not  unknown  in  foreign  academies,  while  he  reaps 
at  home  the  advantages  of  a  successful  professor 
ship  ;  while  another  Lucia,  a  pretty  fairy,  with  eyes 
like  her  mother's,  and  the  same  round  and  merry 
laugh,  wipes  his  spectacles  and  hangs  upon  his  arm. 


90 


ISADORE. 


I  SAD  0  RE. 


A    DRAMATIC     SKETCH. 


Scene  First.    A  garden. 
FATHER. 

She  comes  —  my  Isadore ;  how  large  the  claim, 
The  double  claim,  she  lays  upon  my  care 
For  her  sweet  self,  and  almost  dearer  still, 
As  her  pure  mother's  dying  gift  of  love  ! 
How  rich  the  rose  is  opening  on  her  cheek  ! 
Not  the  red  rose's  hue,  but  that  soft  die 
That  slowly  fades  like  morning  clouds  which  melt 
In  mottled  softness  on  the  whitening  heaven. 
Her  chestnut  locks  float  in  the  sunshine  free  ; 
Her  soft  blue  eyes,  deep  in  their  tenderness, 
Reflect  all  beautiful  and  kindly  things. 
She  would  seem  infantile,  but  that  her  brow 
In  lilied  majesty  uptowers,  and  tells 
That  lofty  thought  and  chastened  pride  are  there ! 

And  must  I  break  the  calm  of  that  young  spirit  ? 
Come  o'er  that  peaceful  lake  with  ruffling  storms  ? 
Wake  up  its  billowy  strife,  and  wreck  perchance 
The  forms  of  hope  that  float  above  its  depths  ? 

[Isadore  enters.] 

My  child,  —  she  knows  what  I  would  say,  and  reads 
The  thoughts  which  only  yester-morn  I  breathed 
With  sympathetic  sighs  and  mournful  tone 
Into  her  startled  ear,  —  List,  Isadore. 


A    DRAMATIC    SKETCH.  91 

ISADORE. 

I  may  not  listen,  father.     I  have  vowed 
On  the  high  altar  of  a  faithful  heart 
To  be  his  bride  —  and  I  will  keep  the  vow. 


But  thou  didst  vow  to  purity  and  truth  — 
At  least  its  semblance ;  and  thou  wert  deceived. 


Deceived,  my  father  ?    Look  upon  his  eyes, 
Where  truth  lies  mirrored ;  look  upon  his  lips, 
That  speak  in  wreathed  smiles  ingenuous  — 
And  then  thou  canst  not  say  I  am  deceived. 

Last  eve  —  it  was  a  calm  and  lovely  one  — 
We  stood  upon  this  garden-mound,  where  flowers 
Sprang  up  like  blessings  'neath  our  happy  tread  j 
The  moon  looked  down  with  that  still  gentle  eye 
With  which  she  greets  young  love  ;  courage  I  drew 
From  the  pure  beaming  of  her  heavenly  gaze. 
And  when  my  hand  poor  Julian  took,  I  breathed 
Our  traitor  fears  ;  an  angry  flush,  that  spake 
Of  injured  innocence  lit  up  his  brow. 
'  Unjust,  ungenerous  Isadore ! '  he  said, 
<  Think'st  thou  the  nectar-beverage  of  the  gods 
Could  tempt  me  from  thy  love  ?    No,  Isadore  ! 
Perchance  I  might,  not  knowing  thee,  have  prized 
A  coarser  joy  ;  but  now  that  thy  young  heart 
In  love's  pulsation  answers  true  to  mine, 
Now  that  thy  lips  blushing  and  faltering 
Have  sealed  thy  vow,  I  never  more  can  stray.' 


My  Isadore,  'tis  hard  to  break  the  wreath 
That  buds  and  twines  around  a  faithful  heart. 
But,  dearest,  love  has  blinded  thee  —  nor  canst 


92  ISADORE. 

Thou  see  th'  incipient  form  of  wo.     His  words, 

Heartless  to  me,  like  oracles  arrest 

Thy  listening  ear  ;  his  eyes,  with  revel  glazed, 

Seem  but  to  thee  bright  orbs  of  hope  and  truth. 

Arouse  thyself,  my  child  —  awake,  awake  ! 

Thou'rt  folding  to  thy  heart  a  serpent's  coil, 

And  thou  wilt  feel  its  sting  —  while  I,  alas, 

Who  took  thee  from  thy  dying  mother's  breast, 

Her  last  sad  gift,  and  nursed  thy  feeble  frame  ; 

Who  watched  thy  gentle  slumbers,  and  on  whom 

Thy  first  smile  fell  like  dawning  light  from  heaven 

When  with  the  ray  of  young  intelligence 

It  broke  its  infant  chaos  ;  I,  who  saw 

Thy  little  feet  and  heard  thy  shout  of  joy, 

When  with  a  tottering  step  thou  gain' dst  my  arms  ; 

I,  who  perceived  thy  rich  and  active  mind 

Ope  to  high  culture  ;  and  to  whom  indeed 

No  longer  child,  thou  hast  become  a  friend, 

Shall  see  thee  chained  for  aye — nay,  I  must  speak  — 

To  one  who,  caught  by  sensual  low  desires, 

Knows  not  the  precious  value  of  the  pearl 

Which  melts  within  his  coarse  and  turbid  grasp. 

ISADORE. 

Father,  'tis  not  that  any  girlish  pride, 
Low  principle,  or  tendency  to  wrong 
Enthrals  me,  that  I  cling  to  Julian  thus. 
I  gave  my  heart  to  virtuous  love  ;  but  if, 
In  any  space  of  time  thy  will  demands, 
I  find  him  aught  that  virtue  shall  condemn, 
I  pledge  myself  to  cast  him  from  my  heart 
As  lightly  as  the  vessel  flings  the  spray 
That  gathers  on  its  prow.     Think'st  thou  thy  child, 
Whom  thou  hast  trained  with  strong  and  upward  hopes. 
And  clothed  with  faith  as  armor,  and  inspired 
With  trust  that  that  high  spark  thou  call'st  her  soul 


A    DRAMATIC    bKETCH.  93 

Shall  rise  and  mingle  with  th'  eternal  flame, 

Will  stoop  to  be  the  victim  of  unblest 

Desires  ?    No  —  hear  me,  Heaven !  and  father,  hear  — 

If  it  be  true  —  and  O,  my  God,  if  prayers 

And  groans  and  tears  issuing  in  troubled  strife 

From  out  a  bursting  heart  are  heard  above, 

It  will  not  be  —  if  it  indeed  be  true 

That  Julian  seeks  the  reveler's  haunt,  I  vow 

To  thee,  who,  having  framed  the  mind,  dost  claim 

Its  homage,  that  these  lips  shall  proudly  spurn 

His  cherished  name.     Spurn,  did  I  say  ?     Ah,  no  — 

For  the  close  tendrils  of  a  faithful  love 

Will  cling  around  me  still ;  but  I  will  loose 

Gently  and  firmly  from  my  fettered  soul 

Their  twining  hold  —  yes,  father,  though  I  die. 


Scene  Second.    The  Garden-Mound —  Sunset. 


'Tis  done,  and  I  am  free  —  so  is  the  oak 
O'er  which  the  storm  with  lightning  wrath  hath  sped 
And  left  a  ghastly  pile  ;  so  is  the  wave, 
The  cold  and  midnight  wave,  that  tosses  on 
Beneath  a  stormy  sky  ;  so  is  the  star 
When  clouds  are  drifting  round  its  lonely  path, 
And  other  stars  are  gone  !     Oh  !  father,  father ! 
Take  me  to  your  kind  arms — they  will  not  sear 
Nor  scorch  me  with  the  drunkard's  burning  touch, 
Nor  shall  I  hear  thy  unpolluted  lips 
Pour  forth  the  babblings  of  a  reeling  brain. 

[Throws  herself  into  her  father's  arms.] 

FATHER. 

Heroic  child !  thine  was  a  high  resolve, 


94  IS  ADORE. 

And  followed  up  in  nobleness  of  soul ! 
I  knew  thou  wouldst  not  compromise  with  sin, 
Nor  give  soft  names  to  foul  intemperance. 
She  hears  me  not :  my  Isadore  —  look  up ! 
Thy  father's  arms  are  round  thee,  and  he  knows 
Thy  deep,  deep  wo.    Alas,  poor  stricken  flower ! 
Thou  wert  not  made  for  this  unkindly  storm ; 
Thy  cheek  is  pale,  beloved,  pale  with  grief : 
Distended  on  thy  marble  brow  and  lids  — 
Too  sad  for  tears  —  arise  the  straggling  veins  ; 
And  thou  dost  start  as  if  some  fearful  task 
Oppressed  thee  still. 

Almighty  !  thou  who  knowest 
The  anguished  throes  with  which  the  youthful  hand 
Cuts  its  own  hopes,  look  down  upon  my  child  — 
Comfort  and  bless  her  in  this  bitter  hour ! 

My  prayer  is  heard  ;  she  rests  —  and  to  her  lips 
A  smile,  almost  serene,  has  winged  its  way. 

ISADORE  (in  a  Ion  tone.) 

Father,  I've  dreamed  ;  and  as  my  half-formed  thoughts 
Came  bruised  and  bleeding  through  my  riven  mind, 
I  seemed  to  grope,  where,  in  the  far  gray  depths, 
With  waving  robes,  above  a  dark  abyss, 
I  saw  a  shadowy  form.    It  beckoned  me, 
And  eagerly  I  strove  to  reach  its  side, 
Until  I  saw  'Temptation'  on  its  brow 
Inscribed.    Then  prayed  a  voice,  "Lead  me  not  there !  " 
From  my  own  heart  it  came  distinct  and  calm. 
Again  I  looked  —  and  there,  in  golden  hues, 
While  floated  off  the  form  in  murky  clouds 
Blazed  the  word  'Duty,' —  and  once  more  the  voice 
Stirred  in  my  softened  soul,  "Those  whom  he  loves 
He  chastens:1 


A    SKETCH.  95 


A  SKETCH. 

The  gay  saloon  was  thronged  with  grace  and  beauty, 
While  astral  rays  shone  out  on  lovely  eyes, 
And  lovely  eyes  looked  forth  a  clearer  beam. 

Fashion  was  there  —  not  in  her  flaunting  robes, 
Lavish  of  charms  —  but  that  fair  sprite  who  moulds 
All  to  her  touch,  yet  leaves  it  nature  still. 

The  light  young  laugh  came  reed-like  on  the  ear, 
Touching  the  chord  of  joy,  electrical ; 
And  smiles  too  graceful  for  a  sound  passed  out 
From  ruby  lips,  like  perfume  from  a  flower. 

Catching  the  gracious  word  of  courtesy, 
The  listening  maid  turned  to  the  speaker's  eye  ; 
And  bowing  in  his  honored  lowliness, 
His  manly  head  inclined  to  her  slight  form. 

There  was  a  hum  of  social  harmony, 
"Like  the  soft  south"  upon  the  rushing  seas. 
Between  its  pauses  burst  the  harp's  rich  tone, 
Poured  out  by  one  who  filled  the  poet's  eye 
With  fond  fruition  of  his  classic  dream. 

A  voice  was  there  —  clear  and  distinct  it  rose 
Like  evening's  star  when  other  stars  are  dim  ; 
Clear,  sweet  and  lonely,  as  that  southern  bird's 
Who  on  far  turrets  trills  his  midnight  lay. 
In  the  heart's  cavern,  deep  that  voice  went  down, 
Waking  up  echoes  of  the  silent  past. 

0  woman !  lovely  in  thy  beauty's  power  ! 
Thrice  lovely,  when  we  know  that  thou  canst  turn 
To  duty's  path,  and  tread  it  with  a  smile. 


THE    LOST    MAIL. 


THE  LOST  MAIL. 

A     TALE    OF    THE    FOREST. 

My  cousin  Lewis  Walpole  from  the  earliest  child 
hood  was  remarkable  for  finding  things.  His  com 
panions  thought  he  enjoyed  what  is  commonly  called 
good  luck,  but  a  closer  philosophy  might  say  he  was 
particularly  observing.  He  once  found  two  letters 
in  a  morning  walk,  the  reward  for  which  filled  his 
pocket  with  spending  money  for  a  year ;  and  as  we 
were  rambling  together  one  day,  he  brought  up  from 
the  mud  on  his  rattan  a  gold  ring.  It  was  a  plain 
ring  with  two  initials ;  and  though  no  immediate  re 
ward  followed,  it  introduced  him  to  a  friendship 
which  was  like  golden  apples  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 
Once  I  stepped  on  a  bit  of  dirty  paper ;  Lewis  fol 
lowed  me,  picket  it  up  and  laid  it  in  his  little  snug 
pocket-book.  Six  weeks  after,  an  advertisement  ap 
peared  offering  three  hundred  dollars  reward  for  that 
very  bit  of  paper,  which  was  the  half  of  a  note  worth 
as  many  thousands. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  pins  sprang  from  the  earth 
for  Lewis,  for  he  was  never  without  a  row  of  them 
in  his  waistcoat.  If  an  old  lady  was  in  want  of  one. 


THE    LOST    MAIL.  97 

Lewis  was  always  ready,  and  then  his  head  was 
patted,  and  he  was  treated  to  tit-bits.  If  a  pretty  girl's 
shawl  was  to  be  fastened,  behold  Lewis's  pin  came 
forth,  and  then  such  a  beautiful  smile  beamed  upon 
him !  If  a  child  was  in  danger  of  losing  her  bonnet, 
Lewis's  offered  pin  was  seized,  and  he  was  caressed 
with  lips  and  eyes,  for  her  preservation  from  a  ma 
ternal  chiding. 

Cousin  Lewis,  some  time  since,  removed  to  the  far 
West,  and  I,  his  senior  by  a  dozen  years,  (though  he 
was  a  stricken  bachelor,)  went  with  him  to  darn  his 
stockings  and  keep  his  hearth  clean.  We  called  our 
log  house  Sparrownest,  and  in  one  way  and  another 
made  it  as  cozie  as  heart  could  wish.  What  could 
poor  cousin  Lewis  find  now,  in  his  wide  fields  and 
vast  forests  ?  Not  pins,  certainly ;  but  one  day, 
twenty  miles  from  home,  he  did  find  in  the  wild 
woods  a  strange  thing,  a  pretty  Irish  girl  about  six 
teen  years  old,  all  alone,  wringing  her  hands  and 
sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  Cousin  Lewis 
dismounted,  (he  was  a  noble  horseman,)  and  offered 
her  assistance.  The  poor  child  only  wept  the  more, 
crying  out  — 

"  And  isn't  it  alone  in  the  wide  world  that  I  am  ?  " 

It  was  an  awkward  business,  but  cousin   Lewis 

knew  better  than  anybody  how   to  do  a  kindness,  so 


98  THE    LOST   MAIL. 

he  wiped  her  eyes,  soothed  her,  and  bade  her  be  of 
good  cheer ;  then  took  her  up  on  his  saddle  and 
brought  her  home. 

What  big  bundle  has  cousin  Lewis  brought  home  ? 
thought  I,  as  he  rode  up  to  the  door  in  the  twilight  — 
and  great  was  my  astonishment  to  see  a  red-cheeked 
girl  slip  down  from  the  saddle,  with  a  shamefaced 
look.  I  bestirred  myself  and  got  supper,  for  the  child 
was  cold  and  hungry.  When  her  appetite  was  ap 
peased  (she  ate  a  whole  chicken,  poor  thing !)  she 
began  to  cry. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  child  ?  "  said  I. 

"  And  is  n't  it  of  my  father  I  'm  thinkin,"  said  she, 
sobbing  and  wringing  her  hands.  "There  were 
twenty  of  us  big  and  little  in  the  wagons,  and  him  in 
the  front  one.  It  was  with  a  clever  old  lady  I  was, 
in  the  after  one,  we  to  take  the  charge  of  one  another, 
ye  mind.  And  when  the  'orses  was  stopped  for 
walthering,  I  minded  to  go  and  gather  some  flowers 
I  had  never  seen  in  my  own  counthry.  So  I  sated 
myself  down  to  pull  some  flowers,  and  a  bit  of  weed 
thereabout  looked  like  the  shamrock,  and  I  fell  a 
thinkin;  a  kind  of  thdreamcame  upon  me,  and  I  was 
at  play  with  Kathleen  and  the  girls,  and  thin  we  were 
for  throwing  peat  at  Dermot,  and  Dermot  made  as  if 
to  kiss  me,  the  impudent ,  and  I  slapped  him  on 


THE    LOST    MAIL.  99 

the  face,  and  thin  I  knew  nothin  more  until  I  started 
up  and  found  myself  alone.  The  wagons  were  gone, 
the  owls  were  hootin',  and  the  night  comin'  on.  Then 
I  shouted,  and  cried,  and  raved,  and  ran  till  my  feet 
failed  me,  and  my  heart  was  jist  like  to  break  in  two, 
when  the  masther,  (here  she  made  a  low  curtsey  to 
cousin  Lewis)  came  along  like  the  light,  on  a  dark 
night,  and  took  compassion  on  the  poor  girl ;  and  she 
will  love  him  all  her  days  for  his  goodness,  she 
will." 

With  that  cousin  Lewis  took  out  his  pocket-hand 
kerchief,  and  I  punched  the  fire. 

So  Dora  became  one  of  us,  and  she  sung  about 
Sparrownest  like  a  young  bird,  with  a  natural  sigh 
now  and  then  for  her  father. 

Did  cousin  Lewis  find  anything  else  in  the  for 
ests  ?  Listen.  As  he  was  riding  on  horseback,  in 
his  deliberate  way  on  the  far  outskirts  of  his  fields, 
he  saw  something  white  scattered  among  the  green 
herbage.  He  spurred  his  horse  toward  the  spot.  It 
was  strewed  with  letters,  which  were  dashed  with 
mud  and  rain.  Cousin  Lewis  alighted,  and  quietly 
deposited  them  all  in  his  saddle-bags. 

Dora  and  I  had  made  a  blazing  fire,  for  the  night 
was  chilly,  and  while  I  was  knitting,  she  trod  about 
with  a  light  step,  laying  the  cloth  for  supper,  and 


100  THE    LOST   MAIL. 

singing  an  Irish  air  about  "  Dermot,  my  dear."  When 
cousin  Lewis  came  in  she  sprang  towards  him  with 
such  joy,  and  hung  his  hat  on  the  peg,  and  put  his 
heavy  saddle-bags  in  one  corner,  and  brought  hirn 
water  to  bathe  his  hands,  and  helped  to  draw  off  his 
great  boots.  He  looked  very  fondly  on  her.  You 
would  not  have  thought  he  was  so  much  older  than 
she,  for  his  hair  was  curling  and  black  as  the  raven's  ; 
mine  has  been  gray  many  years. 

At  supper,  cousin  Lewis  told  us  about  the  letters. 
I  confess,  old  as  I  am,  I  could  scarcely  keep  my  hands 
from  the  saddle-bags,  and  I  thought  Dora  would  have 
torn  them  open. 

"  We  shall  have  a  rainy  day,  to-morrow,"  said  cou 
sin  Lewis  in  his  quiet  way,  "  and  will  want  amuse 
ment  ;  beside,  our  Yankee  clock  points  to  bedtime." 

"  Masther,  dear,"  said  Dora  imploringly,  "  the  let- 
thers  will  not  slape  a  wink  for  wanting  to  be  read." 

"  We  must  keep  them  locked  up,  my  love,  as  we 
do  restless  children,"  said  cousin  Lewis,  and  I  think 
I  saw  him  kiss  the  hand  that  struggled  to  take  the 
key  of  the  saddle-bags  away  from  him.  No  wonder 
he  felt  young,  for  he  was  very  straight  and  grace 
ful. 

The  next  morning,  when  we  assembled  at  break- 


THE    LOST    MAIL.  101 

fast,  the    rain   descended   in    that   determined    style 
which  announces  a  regular  outpouring  for  the  day. 

Dora  and  I  glanced  at  the  saddle-bags  ;  cousin 
Lewis  smiled. 

"  Have  you  settled  it  with  your  conscience,"  said 
he,  "  whether  those  letters  should  be  read  ?  There 
has  evidently  been  a  mail  robbery." 

"  You  would'nt  in  rason  be  after  sendin'  the  let- 
thers  away,  poor  things,"  said  Dora,  "when  they 
were  left  in  the  forests.  And  it  wasn't  that  ye  did 
to  me,  any  how  !  " 

Cousin  Lewis  looked  down  and  sighed,  and  smiled. 
I  could  not  tell  whether  he  was  thinking  of  the  letters 
or  Dora,  but  I  noticed,  when  he  smiled,  how  white 
and  even  his  teeth  were. 

After  some  discussion  we  decided  that  no  ceal  was 
to  be  broken  where  the  superscription  was  legible, 
but  that  it  was  right  and  proper  that  we  should  con 
stitute  ourselves  a  committee  to  decide  which  of  them 
were  in  a  state  to  return  to  the  post-office.  Cousin 
Lewis  was  appointed  reader.  While  he  gave  us  the 
contents  of  the  following,  Dora  amused  herself  by 
treading  on  Carlo's  paw,  who  looked  up  in  her  face 
and  whimpered.  The  date  was  erased. 

"  Dear  Judge, 

"  You  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that 


102  THE    LOST    MAIL. 


has  taken  the  field  against  us.  What  will 
European  cabinets  say  when  such  addle-headed  fel 
lows  form  a  part  of  our  government  ?  B  -  ,  is  up 
and  doing.  You  must  be  on  the  alert,  and  circum 
vent  these  movements  if  possible.  The  Secretary 
ship  may  yet  be  secured  by  a  general  canvassing. 
T.  and  J.  are  fit  tools.  Take  care  of  S.,  and  give  a 
sop  to  the  old  Cerberus  on  the  Island.  Keep  the  date 
in  mind,  as  "  - 

The  rest  of  the  writing  was  obliterated.  The  next 
letter  made  Dora  stop  playing  with  Carlo's  paw. 

"  Philadelphia,  fyc. 

"  Dear  Russell, 

"  I  received  the  books  safely  and 
thank  you.  After  looking  them  over,  I  had  an  odd 
dream,  and  was  awoke  with  my  own  excessive  laugh 
ter.  It  is  utterly  preposterous  that  a  staid  lawyer, 
half  a  century  old,  should  be  dreaming  such  dreams. 

"  I  dreamed  that  I  was  blowing  soap  bubbles  out  of 
a  clay  pipe,  a  thing  I  have  not  done  since  you  and  I 
were  boys  at  Fishkill.  One  after  another  they  floated 
off,  poetically  enough  ;  now  rising  gracefully  in  the 
sunbeams,  and  now  exploding  softly  on  the  turf  at 
my  feet.  At  length  one,  the  king  of  the  rest,  grew 
and  grew  at  the  end  of  my  pipe,  until  it  became  as 


THE    LOST   MAIL.  108 

large  as  a  wash  basin.  It  fell  and  lay  rolling  about, 
offering  beautiful  prismatic  hues  to  the  eye,  when 
presently  a  little  square-nosed  pig  came  grunting  to 
wards  it.  Twice  he  smelt  it  and  tried  to  turn  it,  but 
retreated  as  it  rolled  towards  him.  Again  he  seemed 
to  gather  up  his  courage,  and  thrusting  his  square 
snout  against  it,  it  exploded  with  a  noise  like  a  pistol. 
Little  squarenose  ran  as  if  for  life  and  death,  and  I 
awoke  in  a  positive  perspiration  with  excess  of 
laughter. 

"  interpretation  of 
"  your 

"  James  Col—" 

Dora  shouted  with  glee  at  this  droll  description, 
and  her  interest  was  kept  awake  by  the  following, 
written  evidently  by  a  relation  of  a  certain  popular 
character : 

"Mrs  Sippi 

"  West  End  of  A  merry  K. 
"  Dear  Veller 

"Wot  with  my  see  sickness  and 
warious  causes,  its  bin  utterly  onpossible  for  me  to 
rite  to  you,  tho'  it  warnt  for  want  of  thinkin'  on  you, 
as  thief  said  to  the  constable.  Wos  you  ever  see 
sick,  cousin  Veller?  If  you  wos,  you  would  say  that 


104  THE    LOST    MAIL. 

you  felt  in  the  sitivation  of  a  barrel  of  licker,  that's 
rolled  over  and  over  agin  its  vill.  A  most  mortifyin' 
thing  happen'd  a  board  the  wessel.  You  know,  my 
lovin'  cozen,  the  jar  of  bake  beans  you  put  aboard  for 
my  private  eatin'.  Wot  should  the  stewhard  do,  but 
set  it  atop  of  three  basins  in  my  stateroom,  and  won 
day  wen  the  ladies  wos  eatin'  lunch,  there  came  an 
awful  lurch  of  the  see,  the  wich  burstin'  open  my 
door,  driv  the  whole  concern  into  the  cabin.  The 
beans  was  mouldy  beyond  account,  and  smelt  werry 
wilely,  as  the  pig  said  wen  he  vent  to  his  neighbor's 
pen.  The  beans  was  awfully  griddle  about  the  floor 
under  the  ladies'  feet,  who  scrambled  up  into  the 
cheers.  I  put  my  head  out  of  my  birth  to  explain, 
and  was  taken  wiih  an  awful  qualm  in  the  midst  of 
a  pology. 

"  Give  my  love  to  miss ,  and  tell  her  the  Mef- 

rycans  have  been  quite  shy  of  my  letter  of  introduc- 
shun  from  her.  I'm  jealous  she  didn't  move  in  sich 
respectable  society  as  me,  or  else  she  made  a  mistake 
as  the  dissector  said  wen  he  got  hold  of  a  live  body. 
I  ain't  seen  a  drunken  lady,  nor  a  young  woman  mar 
ried  to  her  grandfather,  nor  a  hypocriticle  parson 
since  I  left  the  wessel. 

"  I  vill  write  agin  as  ever  I  get  to  Mis  Soreeye. 
"  Your  loven  cozen 

"  Timothy." 


THE    LOST    MAIL.  105 

It  may  well  be  imagined  that  Sparrownest  rang 
with  our  mirth,  for  little  matters  move  one  in  the 
country.  Dora  laughed  until  she  cried,  but  her  mood 
was  soon  changed  when  cousin  Lewis  in  his  pathetic 
tones  read  the  next  letter. 

"  Father, 

"  I  take  my  pen  in  desperation,  not  in 
hope  —  and  yet  perhaps,  when  you  know  that  the  body 
of  my  child  lies  beside  me  without  my  having  the 
means  to  buy  him  a  shroud,  you  may  relent.  Poor 
Edward  is  stretched  on  his  hard  matrass  beside  the 
boy,  and  his  hollow  cough  rings  fearfully  through  the 
empty  room.  Oh,  father,  if  he  had  but  that  old  sofa 
you  banished  to  the  garret  on  the  night  of  my  birth 
day  ball !  You  will  think  me  crazy  to  say  so,  but 
you  are  a  murderer,  father.  My  boy  died  for  want 
of  nourishment,  and  you  are  murdering  Edward  too, 

the  best,  the  noblest .     Oh  Heaven,  to  think  of 

the  soft  beds  in  your  vacant  rooms,  and  the  gilt 
edged  cups  from  which  you  drink  your  odorous  tea, 
with  that  white  sugar  sparkling  like  diamonds !  I 
have  just  given  poor  Edward  his  nauseous  draught 
in  a  tin  vessel.  I  have  not  had  time  to  cleanse  it 
since  my  baby  was  ill. 
8 


106  THE    LOST    MAIL. 

"  My  baby,  how  tranquilly  he  rests  !  Would  that 
Edward  and  I  might  lie  down  beside  him  ! 

"  Father,  will  God  treat  his  erring  children  as  you 

do  ?  '  Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children" . 

Oh,  Father  in  Heaven,  art  thou  like  mine  ?  " 

"  A  change  has  come  upon  Edward,  father,  he  is 
dying dead." 

Dora  laid  her  head  upon  the  table  in  tears,  but  she 
soon  wiped  her  eyes  and  listened  with  feminine  in 
terest  to  another  letter. 

"  New  York. 
"Dear  Isabel, 

"  You  must  not  fail  to  be  here  on 
the  21st  of  next  month  as  my  first  bridemaid.  I  can 
take  no  excuse.  My  dress  is  perfect ;  papa  im 
ported  it  for  me.  There  is  and  shall  be  no  copy  in 
the  city.  The  pearls  too  are  exquisitely  unique. 
You  can  form  some  judgment  of  what  will  be  neces 
sary  for  your  own  dress  by  mine.  Of  course  you 
must  be  less  elegant  than  the  bride. 

"  Frock  with  lace  trimmings,  &c.        .       $150 

"Veil, 50 

"  Pocket  handkerchief  (the  divine  thing  !)      20 
"  Embroidered  gloves,       ...  3 


THE    LOST    MAIL.  107 

"  Shoes, 2  50 

"  Stockings, 5 

"  Embroidered  scarf,  ....  10 
"  Set  of  pearls,  ....  200 
"  Bouquet  of  natural  flowers,  .  .  5 
"  Come,  dearest  Isabel,  and  witness  my  dress  and 

my  felicity ! 

"  Your  own  Eleanor. 
"  P.  S. —  You  know  you  must  appear  with  me  on 

Sunday.      Mamma  has  bought  me  a  heaven  of  a 

bonnet  with  feathers." 

Dora  rolled  up  her  eyes.  "  And  isn't  it  feathers 
that's  to  make  that  bird  ? "  said  she.  Upon  which 
she  began  to  speculate  on  her  own  wants  if  she  should 
be  married,  and  decided  that  ten  dollars  would  be  an 
ample  dower  for  her.  Cousin  Lewis,  appropriately 
enough,  though  accidentally,  hit  upon  a  letter  of  good 
advice  to  a  bride.  I  was  very  much  disconcerted, 
however,  at  the  third  paragraph,  to  see  Dora  begin  to 
nod ;  at  the  fourth  her  hands  fell  in  her  lap,  and  her 
ball  of  thread  rolled  on  the  floor ;  at  the  fifth  her 
head  sank  on  her  shoulder,  and  cousin  Lewis  had  to 
support  her  with  his  left  arm. 

"  Don't  disturb  the  poor  child,"  said  he  kindly,  as  I 
began  to  shake  her. 


108  THE    LOST   MAIL. 

"  But  cousin  Lewis,"  said  I,  "  it  is  a  pity  she 
should  lose  such  excellent  advice,  particularly  if  she 
should  marry  a  parson." 

"  You  know  nothing  about  these  matters,  Rachel," 
said  cousin  Lewis,  sharply.  "  I  will  tell  her  all  the 
advice  to-morrow." 

So  his  left  arm  continued  to  keep  her  from  falling, 
and  he  read  on  : 

"  My  dear  Mary, 

"You  ask  for  advice  on  the  new 
scene  of  duties  which  you  have  entered.  I  thank 
you  for  the  implied  compliment  contained  in  such  a 
request.  Having  watched  your  growth  from  the  mo 
ment  that  you  first  blessed  the  eyes  of  your  fond 
parents,  to  this  time,  when  with  conscientious  reso 
lutions,  and  warm  affections,  you  have  become  the 
wife  of  a  clergyman,  it  is  with  no  little  interest  that 
I  answer  it. 

"  You  feel,  doubtless,  better  than  I  can  express,  how 
necessary  is  true  piety  to  the  happiness  of  one  whose 
husband  is  devoted  to  the  cause  of  Christ.  Lament 
able  indeed  is  that  connexion,  if  she  go  coldly  to  the 
house  of  God,  slight  the  meeting  of  household  prayer, 
and  give  no  religious  point  to  the  events  of  life ;  but 
beautiful  is  the  spectacle,  where  confiding  hearts 


THE    LOST    MAIL.  109 

move  in  pious  sympathy,  pleased  with  earth,  yet 
looking  towards  Heaven  ;  and  when  the  wave  of  sor 
row  comes  (as  come  it  must)  and  rushes  over  their 
souls,  together  bending  but  a  moment  with  the  shock, 
and  then  with  a  common  impulse  resuming  their  up 
ward  view. 

"  Yet  I  would  warn  you,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  your 
aims  at  religious  duty,  not  to  involve  yourself  in  your 
husband's  sphere.  Many  young  ladies,  when  wed 
ded  to  clergymen,  have  made  themselves  unhappy 
by  extending  too  widely  the  circle  of  their  cares. 
Ardent  in  the  cause  of  the  Master  they  profess  to 
follow,  they  imagine  that  they  must  devote  their  time 
and  powers  to  the  flock  over  which  their  husband 
presides.  By  degrees,  family  cares  press  on  and 
crowd  their  time,  and  they  lose  their  equanimity  of 
temper  amid  conflicting  duties. 

"  A  minister's  wife  should  show  by  her  deportment, 
that  she  is  one  of  his  flock,  and  not  a  leader.  A  con 
stant  and  respectful  attendance  on  his  ministry,  and  a 
deportment  which  marks  that  her  thoughts  are 

"  For  God,  through  him," 

will  secure  for  her  a  quiet  influence  over  the  minds 
of  his  people.  She  should  seem  not  to  be  first  even 
in  good  works,  but  skillfully  and  delicately  promote 
the  cause  of  truth  through  others. 


110  THE    LOST    MAIL. 

"  The  best  service  you  can  render  his  people  will 
be  to  make  your  husband's  home  happy ;  then  will 
he  go  forth  prepared  to  sympathize  with  them,  and 
his  free  spirit  will  range  over  his  wide  sphere  of  duty 
in  religious  joy.  Remember  that  in  common  with  all 

men 

A  something  of  submission,  of  respect, 
Obedience,  kindness  personal,  he  loves. 
A  slighter  service  so  adorn'd  will  please 
Him  more  than,  wanting  this,  a  greater  would. 

Goethe. 

"  Be  not  cold  to  his  peculiar  taste ;  if  he  loves 
books,  cultivate  literature,  that  he  may  find  your  in 
tellectual  improvement  keeping  pace  in  a  measure 
with  his  own.  If  music  attract  him,  forward  either 
in  yourself  or  in  those  around  you  an  accomplish 
ment  which  may  soothe  his  weariness  or  beguile  his 
care ;  and  while  you  faithfully  study  your  domestic 
duties,  either  in  the  preservation  of  neatness  and 
order  in  your  household  or  with  your  needle  by  his 
side,  let  him  see  that  mind  is  still  '  lord  of  the  as 
cendant.' 

"  You  will  probably,  as  you  pass  by  the  period  of 
youth,  see  those  around  you  who  are  coining  forward 
to  the  same  animated  scene.  Be  careful  not  to  for 
get  your  sympathy  with  the  young;  particularly  with 
those  entrusted  to  you.  If  you  look  coldly  on  scenes 


THE    LOST    MAIL.  Ill 

which  interest  them,  you  allow  them  to  have  a  set  of 
enjoyments  independent  of  you  which  is  dangerous 
to  your  influence  over  their  characters.  Mingle  with 
society  in  moderation,  and  watch  the  little  changes  in 
manners  that  occur  there,  that  they  may  not  be  able 
to  teach  you.  When  they  begin  to  direct  you  on 
the  subject  of  dress  and  deportment,  they  feel  that  in 
one  point,  at  least,  they  have  more  knowledge  than 
yourself,  and  you  lose  just  so  much  authority. 

"  Society,  and  usually  their  own  preferences,  de 
mand  from  the  families  of  clergymen  the  same  re 
finement  which  belongs  to  those  whose  means  are 
much  better  calculated  to  allow  the  acquisition  of 
accomplishments.  In  cultivating  the  manners  and 
taste  of  young  persons  under  your  charge,  you  must 
impress  on  their  minds  that  you  are  training  them  to 
a  means  of  self-support  in  case  of  the  intervention  of 
pecuniary  need,  or  that  you  are  giving  them  re 
sources  in  mental  suffering,  or  providing  them  with 
means  to  appear  amiable  to  others,  and  form  a  note 
in  the  concert  which  fine  talents  are  sounding  over 
the  whole  field  of  existence,  and  which,  in  a  manner, 
speak  the  praise  of  Him  who  gave  them.  These 
considerations  will  repress  the  mere  vanity  of  display, 
and  daily  lessons  of  piety  will  chasten  and  refine  the 
whole. 


112  THE    LOST   MAIL. 

"  I  say  to  you,  what  I  would  say  to  all  young 
wives  :  cultivate  a  gentle  temper.  You  have  a  sweet 
disposition.  Thank  God  for  it,  as  the  best  dower  for 
married  life.  Riches,  accomplishments,  intellect,  fade 
all  away  before  the  genuine  smile  of  good  nature. 
But  do  not  trust  to  the  gift  of  a  sweet  temper.  None 
but  a  woman  can  know  the  wear  and  tear  of  feeling 
produced  by  the  minute  details  of  household  care. 
Pray  and  strive  for  gentleness,  and  '  the  soft  answer 
which  turneth  away  wrath.'  Be  willing  not  to  have 
your  own  way.  The  contest  for  power  is  always  a 
losing  one  for  woman. 

"  Obedience 
Is  her  best  duty  ! ' 

In  obtaining  power  she  may  chance  to  lose  the  sway 
of  stronger  affection. 

"  Farewell,  dear  Mary.  May  the  God  who  has 
blessed  you  thus  far,  sanctify  and  accept  the  offering 
of  the  talents  which  you  and  your's  have  laid  before 
him, 

"  Your  affectionate  aunt, 

"  Caroline." 

As  cousin  Lewis's  voice  ceased  after  reading  this 
certainly  excellent  letter,  Dora  started  and  rubbed  her 
eyes ;  it  was  not  many  minutes,  however,  before  her 


THE    LOST   MAIL.  113 

sympathies  were  excited  and  her  fingers  beating  time 
on  the  table  to  the  musical  jingle  of  the  following 
girlish  epistle : 

"  Cambridge,  Mass. 
"  I  ought  to  make  excuses  due, 
Dear  Julia,  for  not  writing  you, 
Since  with  a  kindness  prompt  and  free 
You  gave  your  charming  thoughts  to  me. 
But  I  abominate  excuses, 
And  rank  them  among  mere  abuses, 
As  they  come  marching  full  and  round 
To  tinkling  instruments  of  sound, 
"Without  a  particle  of  feeling, 
Mere  drapery  for  the  heart's  concealing. 

Your  letter  was  delightful  to  me, 
And  made  a  pleasant  thrill  run  through  me, 
Like  that  we  feel  in  smelling  flowers, 
Or  when  we  listen  to  soft  showers 
That  fall  upon  a  sultry  day, 
And  chase  our  languid  thoughts  away. 

So  you  are  reading  Anacharsis  ! 
How  well  kept  up  that  learned  farce  is, 
Showing  us  sages,  states,  and  kings, 
Familiarly  as  common  things. 

Stationed  once  more  in  this  retreat, 
Where  leisure  and  excitement  meet, 
Where  studious  pleasures,  happy,  calm, 
Show  life  with  every  softer  charm, 
Nothing  disturbs  seclusion's  hour, 
Which  hovers  with  its  tranquil  power, 
Save  transient  visiters,  who  seem 
Like  shooting  stars  with  brilliant  gleam, 
That  dart  from  out  a  distant  sphere, 


114  THE    LOST    MAIL. 

Delight  my  gaze  and  disappear. 

The  Boston  question,  What 's  the  news  ? 
Is  only  answered  by  reviews, 
Or  weekly  papers,  letting  out 
The  bus'ness  that  the  world  's  about, 
While  the  "  last  book  "  unfolds  its  page 
Of  interest  in  this  bookish  age. 
Charles  Lamb  amid  some  random  start 
Throws  out  sweet  whispers  to  my  heart, 
While  Bulwer's  strong  yet  poisoned  bowl 
I  quaff  until  my  senses  roll. 
Not  to  his  hand  the  task  is  given 
To  lift  the  erring  soul  to  Heaven  ; 
Tartarean  darkness  fills  the  soul 
That  yields  to  his  unsound  control. 

Some  graver  things  than  these  I  find 
Daily  to  occupy  my  mind. 
Theology  with  critic  eye 
Causes  my  lingering  doubts  to  fly, 
And  history,  with  reflecting  pen, 
Teaches  of  empires  and  of  men. 

Then  I  have  evening  reveries 
In  gazing  on  the  changing  skies  j 
And  walks,  where,  as  I  look  abroad, 
My  soul  springs  forward  to  its  God. 
Nor  even  lonely  am  I  then, 
Though  straying  from  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
The  breeze  lifts  up  a  pleasant  voice, 
The  streams  in  whispers  say,  Rejoice, 
And  nature's  tone,  wherever  given, 
Thrills  me  like  nature's  God  in  heaven. 

But  how  I  've  written  off  my  time, 
Led  by  the  marching  step  of  rhyme  ! 
Forgive  this  light  and  careless  letter, 
Which  leaves  me  still  a  heavy  debtor 


THE    LOST    MAIL.  115 

To  you  for  yours,  with  its  completeness, 
Finished,  epistolary  neatness. 
And  now  with  kind  remembrance  true, 
Receive,  dear  girl,  a  warm  adieu. 

"  EMILY." 

"  And  is  n't  it  nice,  that  ?  "  said  Dora,  clapping  her 
hands.  "  Och !  but  it  dances  like  Dermot  to  old 
O'Connor's  harp." 

And  now  the  impatient  girl's  fingers  were  again 
thrust  into  the  saddle-bags,  but  as  she  drew  out  seve 
ral  letters,  I  observed  that  the  superscription  on  one 
arrested  her  attention.  She  became  very  pale,  broke 
the  seal  impetuously,  and  glanced  at  the  signature. 
A  joyous  flush  came  over  her  cheeks,  she  danced 
about,  waving  the  letter  in  the  air,  caught  me  round 
the  neck  and  kissed  me,  and  threw  herself  into  cousin 
Lewis's  arms  in  a  passion  of  tears.  When  she  could 
speak  she  sobbed  out  — 

"  And  is  n't  it  father's  own  hand  writing,  darlings  ? 
and  is  n't  he  at  Louisville,  weeping  for  his  own  Dora  ? 
And  will  not  the  masther"  (here  she  disengaged 
herself  from  cousin  Lewis,  and  stood  before  him  with 
her  accustomed  courtesy,)  "  take  poor  Dora  to  the 
father  that 's  her  own  ? " 

Cousin  Lewis  was  startled. 

"  I  had  hoped,"  said  he,  gravely,  "  that  is,  cousin 


116  THE    LOST   MAIL. 

Rachel  and  I  had  hoped,  that  Sparrownest  would 
have  been  your  home  for  life,  Dora." 

Dora  looked  down,  embarrassed,  for  my  cousin 
Lewis's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  and  they  were 
very  black  and  sparkling,  though  he  was  a  stricken 
bachelor. 

I  withdrew  towards  the  window,  but  did  not  alto 
gether  look  away.  I  saw  cousin  Lewis  take  Dora's 
hand ;  I  saw  Dora  blush  all  up  to  the  eyebrows ;  I 
heard  cousin  Lewis  speak  in  a  pleading  tone.  One 
would  not  have  thought  him  an  old  bachelor  by  his 
voice.  I  saw  little  Dora  tremble,  her  heart  seemed 
starting  from  her  bosom,  and  she  began  to  cry. 

"  I  will  not  distress  you,"  said  cousin  Lewis,  ten 
derly.  "  Tell  me  all  your  feelings,  as  you  are  wont 
to  do.  Can  you  love  me,  and  be  my  wedded  wife  ?  " 

Dora  looked  up  through  her  tears.  Her  eyes  shone 
sweetly. 

"  I  will  love  the  masther  to  the  day  of  my  death 
and  after,"  said  she,  "but  thin  I  will  love  Dermot 
better,  and  it  is  a  sin  is  that." 

Cousin  Lewis  dropt  her  hand  abruptly,  and  left  the 
room.  He  stayed  away  an  hour,  and  then  calmly 
prepared  for  Dora's  journey.  And  now  I  never  hear 
him  speak  her  name. 


THE  MONARCH  AT  PRAYER.          117 


THE   MONARCH   AT  PRAYER. 


George  the  Third  knelt  by  the  bedside  of  his  dying  daughter,  the  Princess 
Amelia,  and  prayed. 


Proud  Windsor's  towers  lay  bathed  in  light, 
And  Nature  looked  and  smiled 

On  that  rich  work  of  human  art, 
As  on  her  own  fair  child. 

The  birds  sent  up  their  piping  notes, 

Or  cut  the  yielding  sky  • 
The  gardened  plains  and  wooded  hills 

Looked  gladsome  to  the  eye. 

But  sorrow  deep  and  darkly  fell 

Beneath  those  lordly  walls, 
And  wailings  hushed,  but  sorrowful, 

"Were  whispered  through  the  halls. 

Ah,  what  avails  it,  that  yon  couch 

And  canopy  are  hung 
With  trappings  of  more  brilliant  hue 

Than  ancient  poets  sung  ? 

She  cares  not  for  exotic  flowers, 
Nor  fruits  that  clustering  swell, 

Nor  all  the  pomp  and  gorgeousness 
That  luxury  scarce  may  tell. 

Forbear  to  tempt  her  faded  lip 

With  costly  viands  now ; 
Forbear  to  place  the  scented  wreath 

Above  that  marble  brow. 


118          THE  MONARCH  AT  PRAYER. 

Ye  need  not  tread  with  feathery  step 

Her  velvet  covered  floor ; 
Nor  guard  with  silent  sentinels 

The  nicely  balanced  door  : 

She  heeds  not  now  the  sounds  of  earth, 
More  than  the  autumn  flower 

Heeds  the  wild  winds  that  pass  and  strew 
Its  leaves  within  her  bower. 

Yet  hush  —  tread  light  —  a  sound  goes  up, 
And  o'er  the  heart-pulse  rings ! 

A  monarch  by  his  dying  child 
Prays  to  the  King  of  kings. 

It  is  a  sight  most  beautiful 

For  earthly  pride  to  see 
The  faith  that  lights  her  dying  brow 

And  shines  so  gloriously. 

The  monarch  clasps  her  blue  veined  hands, 
With  gentle  pressure  given  ; 

His  filling  eyes  are  fixed  on  her's, 
And  her's  are  raised  to  Heaven. 

Seek  thou  the  sovereign  on  his  throne, 
The  conqueror  in  his  power, 

The  statesman,  organ  of  a  world, 
In  his  successful  hour  ; 

But  cold,  oh !  cold  the  picture  seems, 

Of  light  and  grace  beguiled, 
When  on  the  monarch's  form  I  gaze, 

Kneeling  beside  his  child. 


THE  MUMMY'S  FLOWER.  119 


THE   MUMMY'S  FLOWER. 

Mysterious  plant  of  death  !  expressive  flower ! 

Whence  didst  thou  come,  and  what  thy  history  ? 

Heard' st  thou  the  lyre  when  first  its  new-born  tones 

Struck  on  the  sorrowing  heart  in  thy  far  clime  ? 

Thou  thrill'st  the  soul ;  not  that  thy  l&ndjirst  broke 

In  strains  of  music  on  a  tuneless  world  ; 

Not  that  thy  towers  have  boldest  soared  to  Heaven, 

And  mocked  the  stars ;  not  that  thy  suns  have  pierced 

The  bright  blue  skies,  and  brought  down  from  their  orbs 

A  scientific  glory  ;  not  that  thence 

The  penman's  skill  arose  t'  immortalize 

The  thoughts  of  man ;  not  that  the  gorgeous  Nile, 

Mother  of  verdure,  opes  her  yearly  fount, 

To  fructify  thy  clime  ;  not  that  thy  nation's  art 

Conquered  the  foul  decay  which  nature  dreads, 

And  lent  a  softened  horror  to  the  tomb  ;  — 

Thou  thrill'st  the  soul,  because  thy  blossom  gives 

The  Christian's  watch-word —  Conquest  o'er  the  grave. 


120  THE    WIFE. 


THE   WIFE. 

I  HAD  been  married  about  four  years,  when  I  re 
ceived  a  letter  from  my  friend  Eliza  Somers,  saying 
she  would  accept  my  invitation  to  pass  a  few  weeks 
with  me  at  Washington.  Five  years  previous  we 
parted  with  mutual  vows  of  unchanging  friendship. 
She  was  my  beloved  companion  in  a  boarding  school, 
when  I  was  in  a  land  of  strangers,  and  had  sympa 
thized  with  me  in  all  my  childish  troubles.  Although 
we  had  been  so  long  separated,  our  affection  and 
sympathy  remained  unchanged,  and  our  letters  were 
records  of  cherished  friendship  and  esteem.  She  had 
just  returned  from  Europe,  where  a  residence  of  some 
years  had  added  to  her  accomplishments  and  intelli 
gence,  while  I  remained  at  home  cultivating  domestic 
virtues. 

As  the  time  drew  near  for  her  to  arrive,  I  heard 
such  accounts  of  her  surpassing  beauty  and  grace, 
that  I  almost  regretted  having  invited  her.  I  had  an 
undefined  fear  that  she  might  be  too  attractive  in  the 
eyes  of  him  who  engrossed  all  my  affection  and  all 
my  solicitude ;  but  it  was  too  late  to  retract,  and  I 
felt  a  feverish  anxiety  when  I  thought  of  her  coming. 


THE    WIFE.  1213 

I  was  not  naturally  prone  to  jealousy,  but  it  was 
the  weakness  of  my  husband's  mind,  that  he  could 
never  see  an  interesting  young  girl  without  seeking 
to  excite  in  her  an  admiration  of  himself.  I  was 
ashamed  to  let  him  know  that  I  suffered  from  these 
flirtations,  and  often  wept  in  secret  after  an  evening 
spent  in  the  society  of  young  girls  by  whom  he 
seemed  fascinated  for  the  time.  I  was  frequently 
mortified  to  see  him  waste  his  time  and  talents  in 
such  trifling,  but  feared  to  make  any  suggestions,  lest 
he  should  think  I  wished  to  check  a  harmless  indul 
gence. 

The  eventful  day  at  length  arrived ;  it  was  a  beau 
tiful  sunny  morning  when  the  carriage  stopped  at  the 
door,  and  my  dear  Eliza,  with  the  bounding  step  of 
youthful  grace,  sprung  to  my  arms.  We  wept  with 
unsubdued  emotion,  but  ours  were  tears  of  joy.  I 
forgot  my  incipient  jealousy,  and  looked  on  this  gifted 
being  as  one  who  was  to  fill  up  my  sum  of  earthly 
happiness.  She  was  dressed  in  a  drab-colored  riding 
habit,  with  a  black  velvet  hat  and  feathers.  Her  hair 
clustered  in  beautiful  ringlets  about  her  face,  and  her 
transparent  complexion  was  tinged  with  the  bloom  of 
health.  With  the  most  perfect  beauty,  she  seemed 
to  have  an  entire  unconsciousness  of  her  attractions. 

Nature  had  been  bountiful  to  this  beautiful  creature 
9 


122  THE    WIFE. 

in  mind  as  well  as  in  person,  and  I  soon  saw  our 
gravest  statesmen  listen  to  her  graceful  conversation 
with  delighted  attention.  In  the  enchantment  of  her 
society,  I  was  happy  beyond  all  my  former  experience. 
She  made  no  effort  to  captivate  my  Henry's  imagina 
tion,  or  to  flatter  his  vanity,  but  looked  on  him  as  a 
being  set  apart  and  consecrated  to  her  friend;  and 
the  thought  did  not  enter  her  mind  that  there  could 
be  any  rivalry  between  us.  I  also  felt  a  confidence 
in  her  integrity,  and  in  those  religious  influences 
which  had  in  her  earliest  years  taken  possession  of 
her  mind. 

My  husband,  like  her,  was  gifted  with  every 
imaginable  grace  of  mind  and  person,  but  not  like 
her  blessed  with  such  strict  integrity  or  singleness  of 
heart.  It  was,  as  I  have  remarked,  the  weak  point 
of  his  character,  to  be  very  susceptible  to  the  influence 
of  female  beauty.  Although  his  responsibility  as  a 
married  man  and  as  a  father,  prevented  him  from 
expressing  his  admiration  openly,  yet  many  a  fair 
girl  has  felt  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  many  an 
innocent  eye  glistened  at  the  tale  of  flattery  he  poured 
into  her  ear  under  the  insidious  guise  of  friendship. 
His  voice  was  soft  and  melting,  and  his  manners  so 
refined  and  delicate  as  to  inspire  immediate  confi 
dence. 


THE    WIFE. 


He  could  not  long  resist  the  temptation  of  trying 
to  excite  in  the  mind  of  my  friend  an  admiration  of 
himself;  but  while  he  sought  to  captivate  her,  he 
became  unconsciously  fascinated  by  her  charms. 
Eliza  was  gratified  by  his  attentions  because  he  was 
the  husband  of  her  friend;  she  was  proud  of  his 
friendship,  because  his  talents  and  his  high  place  in 
society  made  it  an  honor  to  her.  But  although  she 
listened  to  his  conversation  with  gratified  attention, 
and  talked  with  him  with  animation  and  truth,  she 
never  flattered  him.  Thus  was  the  seal  placed  on 
our  youthful  friendship,  and  although  I  might  wonder 
how  she  could  be  insensible  of  his  admiration  whom 
all  the  world  admired,  yet  I  had  consolation  in  the 
belief  that  she  would  not  willingly  become  my  rival. 

The  affection  between  Henry  and  myself  was  not 
impaired  by  these  inconsistencies.  He  loved  and 
respected  me  more  than  all  the  world  beside,  and  he 
was  a  most  devoted  parent.  It  is  true  that  he  often 
made  me  unhappy,  and  he  was  sometimes  on  the 
verge  of  danger;  but  I  could  not  fail  to  perceive  that 
his  impressions  were  evanescent,  and  that  they  did 
not  interfere  with  his  real  affection  for  me.  He 
labored  in  his  profession,  he  sought  honor  and  dis 
tinction  for  my  sake,  and  it  seemed  his  greatest 
pleasure  to  meet  my  approbation.  It  is  possible  that 


124  THE    WIFE. 

if  I  had  represented  to  him  the  folly  as  well  as  dan 
ger  of  his  conduct  he  would  have  been  influenced  by 
my  counsel ;  but  the  fear  of  being  considered  that 
degraded  being,  a  jealous  wife,  kept  me  silent,  and  I 
trusted  to  the  redeeming  power  of  his  own  principles. 
Some  time  after  the  arrival  of  Eliza  we  attended  a 
fancy  ball,  and  Henry  with  animated  looks  asked  her 
to  dance.  They  both  danced  exquisitely,  and  with 
great  spirit  and  animation.  The  exercise  gave  a 
glow  to  her  countenance,  and  my  husband  looked  at 
her  as  if  he  was  surprised  and  bewildered  by  her 
beauty.  I  was  sorry  I  had  not  confided  to  my  friend 
the  history  of  my  husband's  excitability,  because  she 
was  too  generous  to  have  interfered  with  my  happi 
ness,  and  her  own  excellent  principles  would  have 
led  her  to  check  the  first  indication  of  an  undue  pre 
possession.  He  was  evidently  dazzled  by  her  beauty 
and  the  eclat  attending  her;  but  this  was  not  the 
moment  to  allow  me  to  make  the  humiliating  con 
fession  that  I  feared  her  as  my  rival. 

After  the  dance  was  ended,  he  brought  her  to  me 
and  said  — 

"  My  dear  Laura,  1  shall  thank  you  forever  for  the 
pleasure  I  have  enjoyed  this  evening.  Do  entreat 
your  friend  to  waltz  with  me,  for  she  has  refused  my 
solicitation." 


THE    WIFE.  125 

While  he  was  speaking  I  was  so  agitated  that  I 
could  not  reply,  and  I  only  gave  him  a  grave  and 
cold  bow.  But  he  heeded  not  my  abstraction.  My 
hands  and  feet  were  cold  as  marble,  and  my  lips  dry 
and  motionless.  He  stood  by  my  side,  unconscious 
that  I  was  near,  while  he  poured  forth  to  her  strains 
of  the  sweetest  flattery.  She  looked  at  him  with 
surprise,  but  soon  left  us  to  join  the  dance.  My 
husband  followed  her  with  his  gaze,  but  she  heeded 
him  not,  and  he  became  as  abstracted  as  myself. 

My  agitation  soon  passed  away,  the  frequency  of 
these  trials  had  at  length  given  me  power  to  control 
my  emotions  after  the  first  shock,  and  when  Eliza 
returned  to  me,  I  was  as  serene  and  tranquil  as  usual. 
She  was  now  an  object  of  great  admiration  and  atten 
tion,  surrounded  by  our  most  distinguished  gentlemen, 
who  listened  with  delighted  attention  to  her  graceful 
and  intelligent  remarks.  Henry  seemed  studying 
her  character,  from  the  manner  in  which  she  received 
the  homage  now  paid  her.  With  the  selfishness  of 
man's  heart,  he  wished  she  should  look  cold  on 
others,  and  listen  with  pleasure  only  to  him.  His 
pride  would  not  allow  him  to  love,  unless  it  were  to 
conquer,  —  but  at  a  single  look  of  encouragement  he 
was  at  her  side,  and  I  began  to  be  seriously  alarmed 
lest  his  allegiance  to  me  should  be  forgotten  in  his 


126  THE    WIFE. 

admiration  of  my  friend.  Thus  I  was  kept  in  a  state 
of  agitation  and  dread,  as  I  saw  her  power  over  him. 
But  she  was  unconscious  of  the  impression  she  had 
made,  and  I  was  supported  by  the  hope  that  her  sensi 
bility  would  soon  awaken  in  favor  of  one  of  the 
numerous  candidates  for  her  regard. 

It  is  fortunate  for  the  happiness  of  married  life 
that  there  are  interests  and  sympathies  which  bind 
husband  and  wife  together,  beyond  the  reach  of 
external  circumstances.  Who  could  believe  that  he 
who  was  often  quietly  seated  by  the  fire  in  my  dress 
ing  room,  alternately  caressing  my  lovely  children 
and  their  mother,  could  be  the  same  being,  who, 
perhaps  a  few  hours  before,  would  almost  have  sacri 
ficed  their  happiness  and  affection,  to  obtain  the 
transient  admiration  of  some  favorite  young  girl  ? 
When  fatigued  with  the  world,  the  ease  and  comfort 
of  his  own  fireside  was  a  luxury  to  him.  He  took 
my  hand  in  his  one  evening,  and  said  tenderly  — 

"  You  look  pale,  my  dearest  Laura.  I  wish  I  had 
spent  the  afternoon  with  you,  rather  than  with  those 
silly  girls." 

The  tears  started  to  my  eyes,  and  I  was  on  the 
point  of  telling  him  how  much  he  made  me  suffer. 
He  kissed  away  my  tears,  and  said  that  no  man  living 
had  so  delightful  and  lovely  a  wife,  and  that  it  should 


THE    WIFE.  127 

be  the  study  of  his  whole  life  to  make  me  happy. 
Our  little  girl  passed  her  fingers  through  his  curls 
and  felt  his  cheeks,  and  looking  up  in  his  face,  said  — 

"  Do  n't  you  love  mama  now,  dear  papa,  better 
than  you  do  cousin  Eliza  ?  " 

This  simple  little  question  awakened  all  the  sensi 
bility  of  his  character,  and  he  seemed  at  once  to 
comprehend  why  I  looked  pale,  and  why  the  tears 
came  into  my  eyes.  He  redoubled  his  assiduity  and 
caresses ;  he  said  I  was  more  dear  to  him  than  in  our 
days  of  early  love ;  and  that  if  he  trifled  with  others 
it  was  through  mere  vanity  and  love  of  admiration. 
This  was  a  moment  of  happiness  to  us  all ;  and  thus 
the  bands  of  affection  were  renewed  which  had  been 
in  danger  of  being  broken. 

Some  weeks  passed  away  in  all  the  alternations  of 
amusement  and  weariness,  happiness  and  discon 
tent.  He  was  proud  of  my  beauty  and  accomplish 
ments,  and  there  were  times  when  his  attentions  to 
me  were  almost  exclusive  and  lover-like.  At  others 
they  were  shared  by  Eliza,  and  frequently  she  en 
grossed  him  wholly.  I  believe  at  this  time  I  was  the 
only  object  of  his  love,  though  to  others  he  appeared 
to  live  but  in  her  presence.  She  was  often  censured, 
while  the  apparently  neglected  wife  was  pitied. 

Eliza  was  more  admired  than  any  lady  who  had 


128  THE    WIFE. 

appeared  at  Washington  for  a  long  period,  and  she 
might  have  formed  a  most  delightful  connexion  which 
would  have  satisfied  even  the  ambition  of  her  mother, 
and  have  secured  her  own  happiness ;  but  I  believe 
that  at  this  time  my  husband  began  to  have  an  undue 
influence  over  her.  My  little  Henry  had  been  quite 
sick ;  I  was  confined  almost  exclusively  to  the  nursery; 
and  in  my  anxiety  for  him,  I  forgot  every  other  in 
terest.  From  this  cause  my  husband  and  Eliza  were 
thrown  much  into  each  other's  society.  They  read 
together,  —  they  wrote  poetry  for  each  other,  —  they 
were  both  fond  of  music,  and  they  were  very  senti 
mental.  She  lost  her  interest  in  the  amusements  of 
society,  and  by  degrees  her  acquaintances  and  even 
her  admirers  ceased  to  inquire  after  her. 

One  day  when  my  little  boy  was  nearly  recovered, 
Henry  proposed  to  take  me  to  ride.  As  I  had  not 
enjoyed  much  of  Eliza's  society  of  late,  and  she 
seemed  dispirited,  I  asked  her  to  accompany  us.  It 
was  a  delightful  morning,  and  the  pleasure  of  getting 
out  into  the  fresh  air,  with  the  delight  of  knowing 
that  little  Henry  was  relieved  from  danger,  exhilarated 
my  spirits,  and  I  was  as  gay  as  a  bird.  Henry  was 
all  attention  and  tenderness  towards  me,  and  we  were 
both  animated  and  happy. 

Eliza  seemed  less  amiable  and  less  happy  than. 


THE    WIFE.  129 

usual,  while  I  was  like  a  child  just  released  from 
captivity.  The  country,  in  the  early  spring,  looked 
delightfully,  and  I  proposed  to  get  out  and  take  a 
ramble  in  the  fields.  The  proposition  was  agreeable 
to  all,  and  we  sallied  forth.  By  degrees  Eliza  recov 
ered  her  gaiety,  and  we  were  a  happy,  careless  two. 
Suddenly  we  heard  the  crash  of  a  fence,  and  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  field  saw  a  tremendous  bull 
coming  furiously  towards  us.  For  an  instant  Henry 
hesitated  which  he  should  save,  but  in  the  next  he 
had  taken  me  in  his  arms  and  set  me  over  the  fence ; 
he  then  turned  in  hopes  of  being  in  time  to  save 
Eliza,  but  the  coachman,  seeing  our  peril,  rushed  to 
our  assistance  and  arrived  just  in  time  to  place  Eliza 
over  the  fence  by  my  side.  Henry  jumped  over  and 
joined  us,  and  I  threw  my  arms  round  his  neck  and 
kissed  him  in  an  agony  of  joy  and  terror.  Eliza  had 
fainted  on  the  ground.  She,  however,  soon  recovered, 
and  as  she  opened  her  eyes  Henry  gave  her,  as  I 
thought,  an  impassioned  kiss.  But  I  ascribed  it  to 
the  agitation  of  the  moment,  and  would  not  allow  it 
to  embitter  the  joy  and  gratitude  I  felt  for  deliver 
ance  from  such  a  peril.  I  was  satisfied  that  in  a 
moment  of  danger  Henry  had  given  me  the  prefer 
ence,  when  one  equally  helpless  was  by  his  side. 


130  THE    WIFE. 

The  coachman  procured  her  a  glass  of  water,  and  as 
she  took  it,  she  said  — 

"  Thomas,  I  am  glad  it  was  you  who  saved  my 
life,  because  I  can  reward  you.  But  if  it  had  been 
you,  sir,  reward  had  been  out  of  my  power,  and  my 
obligation  would  have  been  perpetual." 

I  thought  she  spoke  with  a  tone  of  resentment,  and 
Henry  looked  distressed. 

As  we  rode  home  I  made  an  effort  to  recover  the 
cheerfulness  of  the  party  by  entering  into  conversa 
tion  ;  but  after  a  few  ineffectual  attempts  we  all 
relapsed  into  silence.  My  apprehensions  for  the 
happiness  of  Eliza  were  now  seriously  awakened. 
I  feared  that  Henry  had  not  been  ingenuous  with 
her.  I  thought  that  few  men  were  so  formed  to 
dazzle  the  imagination  of  an  unsuspecting  young 
girl;  and  I  had  seen  him,  when  he  would  sometimes 
seem  willing  to  sacrifice  his  lofty  ambition  and  aspir 
ing  hopes  to  gain  the  fleeting  regard  of  some  new 
being  of  fashion.  I  feared  that  my  dear  friend  was 
deluding  herself  into  the  belief  that  she  might  cherish 
an  innocent  though  romantic  attachment  for  the  hus 
band  of  her  friend;  a  delusion  that  would  be  fatal 
not  only  to  her  own  happiness,  but  to  mine. 

I  did  not  see  her  after  our  ride  until  she  came 
down  arrayed  for  a  dinner  party.  She  was  splen- 


THE    WIFE.  131 

didly  dressed,  arid  looked  radiant  in  beauty ;  she  had 
recovered  her  cheerfulness  and  self-possession.  I 
kissed  her  affectionately,  and  told  her  I  was  delighted 
to  see  her  look  so  lovely.  Henry  handed  her  to  the 
carriage,  and  I  saw  a  srnile  illumine  her  face,  and  a 
blush  of  surprise  and  pleasure  spread  over  her  coun 
tenance,  as  he  stopped  at  the  door  to  bid  her  adieu. 
As  he  turned  to  come  in,  the  expression  of  his  face 
gave  me  a  chill,  and  a  shudder  ran  through  my  frame ! 
He  had  a  look  of  triumph  and  satisfaction,  for  which 
I  could  not  account. 

He  was  going  the  next  day  on  a  distant  excursion, 
and  expected  to  be  absent  a  week  at  least.  Employed 
in  making  his  business  preparations,  he  allowed 
me  no  opportunity  to  observe  his  feelings.  About 
eight  o'clock  he  came  in,  and  he  looked  so  cheerful 
and  happy  that  my  mind  was  reassured.  I  resolved 
not  to  disturb  his  few  remaining  hours,  by  making 
inquiries  which  might  lead  to  painful  discussions. 
We  passed  the  evening  alone,  chatted,  and  had  mu 
sic,  as  we  used  to  do  when  we  were  at  our  happy 
home  in  the  country.  I  forgave  him  silently  the  look 
of  affection  he  had  given  Eliza,  and  was  almost 
ashamed  of  my  jealous  fears.  At  ten  o'clock  he 
started  up,  and  said  — 

"  You  must  be  tired  with  the  exertion  you  have 


132  THE    WIFE. 

made  to-day,  my  dear  Laura,  and  you  had  better  go 
to  bed.  As  Eliza  has  gone  to  a  public  ball  this  even 
ing,  it  will  be  proper  for  me  to  see  her  safe  home." 

Before  I  had  time  to  speak,  he  had  .kissed  me  and 
left  the  house. 

I  was  now  in  an  agony  of  suffering.  I  groaned, 
—  I  clenched  my  hands,  —  I  raved  about  the  room 
until  I  was  exhausted,  and  then  sat  down  and  tried  to 
recollect  myself.  Many  little  circumstances  in  the 
conduct  of  Henry  occurred  to  my  mind,  and  a  con 
viction  that  his  affections  were  lost  to  me  forever, 
almost  made  me  distracted.  I  spent  an  hour  in  this 
dreadful  state  ;  the  idea  of  my  sweet  children  at 
length  came  over  my  mind,  and  I  went  to  the  nursery. 
They  lay  sleeping  sweetly  together,  and  I  burst  into 
tears. 

"  0  Henry."  I  exclaimed,  "  how  could  you  blight 
such  a  paradise  of  happiness  ?  Can  you  know  the 
wretchedness  you  have  caused  !  Dear  Eliza,  you 
are  innocent,  for  who  could  resist  such  allurements  ?  " 

Another  hour  of  misery  passed,  and  Henry  came 
not.  A  second  paroxysm  ensued.  At  two  o'clock 
the  door  bell  rang,  and  Henry  and  Eliza  came  in 
laughing  and  apparently  very  happy.  I  was  not  pre 
pared  for  this.  I  shut  the  door  of  the  nursery  softly, 
and  fainted  on  the  floor.  How  long  I  remained  I 


THE    WIFE. 


133 


know  not;  but  cold,  and  exhausted  and  miserable,  I 
lay  down  on  the  bed  by  the  children  almost  without 
sense  or  memory.  At  daylight  the  door  opened  care 
fully,  and  Henry  came  in.  He  took  rny  cold  hand 
in  his,  and  said  he  came  to  take  a  parting  kiss  of  me 
and  the  children.  I  could  hardly  recollect  myself. 
He  said  he  had  not  been  in  bed ;  that  having  some 
unfinished  writing  to  do  and  being  obliged  to  travel 
as  soon  as  the  sun  rose,  he  had  remained  in  his  study. 
"  I  was  surprised,  dear  wife,"  he  continued,  "  not  to 
find  you  in  our  room  when  I  went  to  take  leave  of 
you."  I  attempted  to  speak,  but  the  words  died 
away,  and  my  tongue  absolutely  cleaved  to  my  mouth. 
The  room  was  dark  —  he  could  not  see  the  haggard 
expression  of  my  face,  and  I  was  too  miserable  to 
speak.  He  kissed  me  affectionately  and  went  towards 
the  door ;  he  seemed  irresolute,  and  came  and  sat  by 
the  bed.  He  took  my  hand  again,  and  said,  "  you 
seem  languid  this  morning;  are  you  well,  are  the 
children  well  ? "  My  tears  began  to  flow,  and  I 
should  soon  have  told  all  my  suffering,  but  the  stage 
horn  sounded,  and  he  left  me. 

When  the  maid  came  in  to  dress  the  children  she 
found  me  so  low  and  languid,  that  she  alarmed  Eliza, 
and  begged  her  to  send  for  a  physician.  Eliza  came 
immediately  into  the  nursery,  but  I  was  not  able  to 


134  THE    WIFE. 

speak.  I  could  only  sigh  and  moan.  As  soon  as 
the  physician  saw  me  he  perceived  at  once  that  my 
system  was  in  a  high  state  of  nervous  excitement. 
He  asked  no  questions,  but  ordered  an  opiate,  and 
perfect  rest  and  quiet.  Eliza  continued  to  watch  by 
me  through  the  day,  and  I  gradually  became  com 
posed,  and  slept.  On  the  second  day  I  was  still  un 
able  to  converse,  but  my  recollection  returned,  and 
my  sense  of  misery  was  very  much  mitigated.  I 
began  to  think  I  had  given  too  much  consequence  to 
the  circumstances  which  I  had  noticed.  I  thought  of 
Henry's  unvarying  kindness  and  affection,  and  of  his 
indulgent  forbearance  towards  all  my  faults.  A  thou 
sand  instances  of  his  tenderness  and  the  sacrifice  of 
his  own  inclinations  to  my  happiness,  rushed  to  my 
recollection,  and  I  soon  began  to  find  comfort.  On 
the  third  day,  I  was  able  to  enter  into  conversation 
with  Eliza.  She  seemed  unconscious  that  any  part 
of  my  suffering  had  been  occasioned  by  her,  and  I 
postponed  entering  on  the  subject  until  I  had  more 
maturely  considered  whether  it  would  be  expedient 
for  me  to  notice  the  past,  or  to  leave  everything  to 
the  rectitude  of  her  mind  and  heart. 

It  is  singular  that  such  a  revolution  should  have 
taken  place  in  my  feelings,  without  any  change  of 
circumstances ;  but  my  nerves  were  again  braced,  and 


THE    WIFE.  135 

reason  resumed  her  empire.  Eliza  took  her  needle 
work,  and  gave  orders  that  no  company  should  be 
admitted,  and  we  sat  together  composedly,  but  we 
were  both  in  a  grave  humor.  A  servant  came  in 
and  brought  her  a  book.  It  was  enveloped  in  a  brown 
paper  covering,  and  besides  being  sealed,  was  tied 
with  a  string  of  very  narrow  blue  ribbon.  She 
looked  confused,  and  said,  with  an  effort  to  seem  un 
concerned,  "  You  may  lay  it  in  my  dressing-room." 
All  my  subdued  emotions  were  again  excited,  and 
my  boasted  philosophy  gone. 

I  said  to  Eliza,  "  if  you  have  no  objection  I  would 
like  to  look  at  that  book,"  and  I  held  my  hand  out  to 
take  it  from  the  servant,  but  she  seized  it  herself,  and 
said,  "  It's  only  a  book  which  William  Brown  prom 
ised  to  send  me.  Why  should  you  be  so  curious  ?  " 
"  I  am  not  curious,  Eliza,  but  I  have  a  particular 
reason  for  seeing  what  is  contained  in  that  envelop. 
I  am  convinced  that  the  book  did  not  come  from  Wil 
liam  Brown." 

"  Then  you  doubt  my  word  ?  " 

"  No,  that  does  not  follow  ;  you  may  be  mistaken." 

She  continued  to  hold  the  package  irresolutely,  but 

at  length  rose  up,  and  was  going  with  it  to  her  own 

room.     My  resolution  was  now  taken.     I  took  hold 


136  THE    WIFE. 

of  her  arm  and  said,  "  this  book  came  from  Henry 
—  perhaps  you  do  not  know  it,  but  I  have  too  certain 
knowledge  of  the  fact,  for  I  gave  him  this  blue  rib 
bon  to  fasten  a  bundle  of  papers  with  the  evening 
before  he  went  away." 

"  0  then,  I  see  how  it  is,  you  are  jealous,"  said  she, 
blushing. 

"  No,  Eliza,  not  jealous,  but  I  am  grieved  to  see 
you  under  a  delusion  which  may  prove  fatal  to  your 
happiness." 

"  Do  you  think  there  is  any  harm  in  your  husband 
sending  me  a  book  ?  " 

"  None  in  the  world.  But  there  is  harm  in  the 
mystery  and  concealment." 

She  seemed  extremely  reluctant  to  open  the  pack 
age,  but  I  was  determined  now  to  see  whatever  it 
contained.  I  had  not  at  this  time  a  rague  and  un 
settled  jealousy,  which  never  fails  to  obscure  the 
judgment,  but  I  had  a  clear  and  distinct  perception  of 
duty  marked  out,  and  I  insisted  on  the  package  being 
opened  in  my  presence. 

She  slowly  broke  the  seal  and  untied  the  ribbon, 
trembling  with  embarrassment.  At  length  she  took 
out  the  book,  looked  at  it  carelessly,  and  said  — 

"  Here  is  the  book ;  it  is  the  Pleasures  of  Memory. 


THE    WIFE.  137 

I  really  do  not  perceive  why  you  should  attach  so 
much  importance  to  my  receiving  a  little  present  from 
your  husband." 

"  Eliza,"  said  I,  "  you  are  not  ingenuous  — .  in  that 
book  is  a  letter ;  and  that  letter  contains  the  reason 
of  this  agitation  and  concealment.  I  must  read  that 
letter  before  you  quit  the  room." 

"  As  the  letter  is  directed  to  me,"  said  she,  "  I  sup 
pose  you  have  no  objection  to  my  reading  it  first  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  if  you  will  read  it  in  my  pres 
ence." 

She  opened  it  slowly,  and  at  the  first  sentence,  I 
saw  that  she  was  very  much  agitated.  The  color  left 
her  cheeks,  and  having  read  about  a  page,  she  began 
to  tear  the  letter  in  pieces.  I  snatched  it  out  of  her 
hand,  rushed  into  my  dressing-room  and  locked  the 
door.  I  sat  down  without  sense  or  motion  —  my  cir 
culation  had  ceased,  and  I  was  like  a  marble  statue ; 
I  thought  I  should  die. 

The  idea  that  Eliza  was  now  in  a  state  of  suffer 
ing  and  suspense  as  well  as  myself,  at  length  aroused 
me  to  action.  I  read  the  letter  deliberately  through 
twice.  I  saw,  through  the  whole,  the  sophistry  of  a 
man  who  was  dazzled  at  the  idea  of  being  beloved 
by  such  an  exquisite  being,  and  who  was  aiming  to 
convince  her  that  an  attachment  between  them  might 
10 


138  THE    WIFE. 

be  pure  and  perfectly  innocent,  and  could  in  no  way 
.affect  his  duty  or  conduct  as  a  married  man.  He 
alluded  to  this  last  interview  in  terms  which  con 
vinced  me  that  under  the  name  of  friendship,  they 
had  exchanged  pledges  of  affection,  and  he  endea 
vored  to  convince  her  that  they  violated  no  duty  hy 
such  a  course.  His  language  and  sentiments  were 
.pure  and  romantic,  such  as  would  suit  the  fancy  of 
an  unsophisticated  female. 

I  will  not  here  repeat  his  arguments  or  his  expres 
sions,  but  I  inferred  from  them  that  Eliza  still  be 
lieved  herself  under  the  influence  of  a  calm  and  holy 
friendship.  It  was  my  painful  duty  to  enlighten  her 
mind  on  this  most  momentous  occasion. 

I  went  to  her  room,  and  found  her  involved  in  the 
deepest  misery.  She  acknowledged  that  she  had  de 
ceived  me,  but  said  she  had  also  deceived  herself. 
She  begged  my  forgiveness,  and  entreated  that  I 
would  guide  and  direct  her. 

"  I  am  in  utter  despair,"  said  she,  "  and  would  fly 
to  you,  to  my  friend  whom  I  have  injured,  for  relief." 

"My  dear  Eliza,  there  is  but  one  course  of  recti 
tude,  but  one  right  way.  If  you  have  really  been 
yourself  deceived,  you  are  not  so  much  to  be  blamed 
as  pitied.  We  are  both  placed  in  difficult  circum 
stances,  and  we  must  take  counsel  together." 


THE    WIFE.  139 

I  took  Henry's  letter,  read  it  through  to  her,  and 
simply  pointed  out  the  consequences  which  would  re 
sult  from  his  reasoning. 

"  He  has  deceived  himself  as  well  as  you,"  said  I. 
"  If  you  are  sincerely  desirous  to  act  on  Christian 
principles,  you  have  but  little  to  do.  I  do  not  wish 
to  appear  in  Henry's  eyes  as  an  irritated  and  jealous 
wife,  and  perhaps  if  /  should  remonstrate  with  him, 
he  would  ascribe  it  to  unreasonable  suspicion.  You 
shall  therefore  answer  his  letter  in  the  terms  which 
your  awakened  conscience  and  unbiassed  judgment 
shall  dictate.  If  Henry  acquiesces  in  your  opinions 
and  relinquishes  all  intercourse  with  you,  what  has 
passed  shall  remain  a  secret  between  us.  I  shall  love 
you  better  than  ever,  and  Henry  will  be  saved  the 
pain  of  knowing  that  the  wife  whom  he  respects  and 
whom  he  will  again  love,  is  acquainted  with  his  de 
reliction. 

This  proposition  was  exactly  suited  to  Eliza's  cha 
racter.  It  shewed  a  confidence  in  her  integrity  and 
regard  for  her  feelings,  which  attached  her  more  than 
ever  to  me.  After  some  further  conversation,  I  left 
her  to  write  her  letter. 

She  brought  it  in  the  evening  for  me  to  read.  It 
met  my  approbation  entirely ;  it  contained  reproof 


140  THE    WIFE. 

and  counsel,  as  well  as  expressions  of  regard,  but 
/'shewed  so  clearly  that  she  was  governed  by  religious 
influences,  as  to  leave  no  room  for  an  appeal  from  this 
decision.  We  passed  the  evening  tranquilly  but 
seriously  together,  and  before  parting  for  the  night 
joined  in  a  devout  prayer,  that  our  Heavenly  Father 
would  protect  us  and  enlighten  our  path  of  duty,  and 
teach  all  erring  minds  the  way  of  truth. 
^  Eliza  and  I  separated,  on  that  eventful  night,  on 
terms  of  perfect  confidence  and  friendship.  She  saw 
that  she  had  erred,  but  such  was  the  integrity  of  her 
mind,  that  although  she  might  feel  sorrow  in  resign 
ing  the  friendship  and  affection  of  such  a  being  as 
Henry,  and  feel  deeply  the  loss  of  his  society,  yet 
she  resolved  to  act  up  fully  to  the  promise  she  had 
had  given  me. 

And  here  let  me  pause  to  pay  a  tribute  to  the 
power  of  education.  Principles  of  truth  and  piety 
and  responsibility  to  God  had  1)een  inculcated  with 
every  incident  of  her  life,  and  although  great  atten 
tion  was  given  to  her  improvement  in  other  respects, 
yet  all  was  subservient  to  moral  and  religious  culture. 
If  Eliza  forgot  for  a  while  her  duty,  it  was  owing  to 
the  great  reliance  she  placed  on  Henry's  integrity, 
and  on  her  respect  for  his  character.  She  did  not 


THE    WIFE.  141 

perceive  that  she  might  be  the  means  of  alienating 
his  affection  from  his  wife  and  family,  and  thus  be 
guilty  of  a  great  moral  evil,  but  was  led  insensibly 
by  the  guise  of  friendship. 

I  was  now  more  miserable  than  I  ever  had  been. 
I  had  known  sorrow  and  disappointment,  but  here 
was  desolation  and  despair.  I  thought  my  husband's 
affections  were  lost  to  me  forever,  and  that  he  had 
forfeited  my  esteem  in  his  attempt  to  interest  the 
heart  of  my  dear  friend.  This  reflection  added  bit 
terness  to  my  grief,  and  I  was  almost  distracted.  I 
did  not  attempt  to  sleep,  and  I  found  myself  uttering 
exclamations  of  wo  with  wild  gesticulations.  Then 
I  would  sit  down  and  try  to  be  calm.  I  recollected 
all  his  tenderness,  all  his  care  for  me  when  I  was 
sick  and  in  trouble,  and  all  the  instances  of  devoted 
affection  he  had  demonstrated  for  me  through  our 
married  life. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  I  exclaimed,  "  that  all  this  happi 
ness  is  lost  to  me,  and  that  I  shall  live  through  it  ? 
Shall  I  become  indifferent  to  him,  and  again  see  him 
flattering  and  caressing  other  beautiful  girls  ?  Shall 
I  still  be  his  wife,  and  yet  perhaps  an  object  of  pity 
to  my  friends  ?  There  is  something  appalling  in  this 
inroad  on  the  affections." 


142  THE    WIFE. 

At  length  morning  dawned.  I  heard  the  servants 
below;  the  doors  opened,  the  shutters  were  unclosed, 
Henry's  favorite  servant  went  whistling  through  the 
hall.  All  seemed  busy.  All  seemed  happy.  I  alone 
was  wretched.  In  order  not  to  be  spoken  to,  I  laid 
down  in  my  bed  and  pretended  to  sleep.  Soon  the 
cheerful  voices  of  my  children  in  the  nursery  told  me 
they  were  awake  and  well ;  and  a  feeling  of  gratitude 
to  my  Heavenly  Father  that  he  had  preserved  them 
through  the  night  was  the  first  gleam  of  comfort  I 
had  experienced.  I  became  more  tranquil,  and  was 
soon  able  to  address  that  Being  who  is  ever  ready  to 
answer  the  supplication  of  an  humble  sufferer.  I  did 
not  rise  to  breakfast,  but  sent  for  Eliza  to  bring  her 
prayer-book  to  my  room,  and  she  read  to  me  the 
morning  prayers  and  a  portion  of  the  Scriptures, 
and  thus  were  our  hearts  sanctified  and  strengthened 
for  the  trials  of  the  day. 

It  were  vain  to  tell  of  the  alteration  of  hope  and 
despondency,  of  renewed  affection  and  deep  resent 
ment  which  agitated  my  mind  until  the  day  arrived 
when  we  might  expect  an  answer  to  Eliza's  letter. 
She  too  partook  of  my  agitation,  for  she  was  uncer 
tain  how  Henry  would  act  on  the  occasion.  We  sat 
together  in  my  dressing-room,  abstracted  and  sad  ; 


THE    WIFE.  143 

the  post  horn  sounded,  and  in  the  next  moment  a  let 
ter  was  brought  to  me,  which  I  knew  to  be  in  Henry's 
handwriting.  We  both  turned  pale.  There  was 
something  very  affecting  in  our  situation.  So  much 
of  the  happiness  and  respectability  of  our  lives  de 
pended  on  the  present  communication,  that  we  were 
almost  breathless  when  I  broke  the  seal. 

I  read  in  silence  the  first  passage  !  I  sprang  from 
my  seat.  I  threw  my  arms  around  Eliza's  neck,  and 
exclaimed,  "  We  are  happy  once  more !  Virtue  is 
triumphant,  and  my  dear  husband  is  restored  to  me." 
I  fainted  with  excess  of  emotion.  When  I  recovered 
I  found  Eliza  standing  by  my  side,  and  we  mingled 
our  tears  and  our  caresses,  until  we  were  sufficiently 
composed  to  proceed.  He  entered  into  a  detail  of  all 
his  feelings  and  all  his  transgressions,  and  enclosed 
Eliza's  letter  for  me  to  read,  that  I  might  witness  his 
humiliation  and  learn  the  value  of  her  character. 
He  said  his  affection  for  me  had  always  been  para 
mount  to  every  other  sentiment,  and  it  was  only  in 
the  late  unhappy  incidents  that  he  had  ever  been  in 
any  danger  of  sacrificing  his  allegiance  to  me.  "  But," 
he  continued,  "  if  you  and  Eliza  will  forgive  this 
dereliction  of  principle,  my  future  life  will  show  that 
I  am  worthy  your  confidence.  Although  I  can  offer 
no  excuse  for  the  past,  yet  I  will  prove  that  I  am  now 


144  THE    WIFE. 

awakened  to  the  responsibility  conferred  by  the  ele 
vated  station  I  hold  in  society,  and  by  the  obligations 
of  married  life."  In  conclusion  he  said,  "  I  shall  de 
pend  on  you,  my  dear  wife,  to  watch  over  me  and 
remind  me  of  my  duty.  If  you  see  me  yielding  to 
my  love  of  female  admiration,  you  can  interpose  your 
gentle  spirit  and  reasonable  mind,  and  I  shall  be 
shielded  from  temptation  by  the  armor  of  hallowed 
affection."  He  thus  in  a  frank  and  manly  spirit  ac 
knowledged  his  faults  and  his  danger,  and  I  was  too 
happy  in  the  belief  of  his  restored  affection  to  inves 
tigate  too  closely  the  reasons  for  his  disclosure. 
There  is  indeed  a  redeeming  principle  in  wedded 
love.  Providence  has  wisely  planted  about  it  in 
terests  and  affections  which  enable  married  persons 
to  bear  with  each  other's  aberrations  and  infirmities. 
As  our  union  had  been  threatened  with  danger,  we 
mutually  felt  the  necessity  of  avoiding  future  trials, 
by  an  increased  vigilance  over  each  other's  faults,  and 
by  perfecting  our  own  character  as  moral  and  account 
able  agents. 

Though  the  position  of  conjugal  intercourse  in  the 
United  States  is  one  among  the  most  beautiful  fea 
tures  of  society,  still  there  is  danger,  as  European 
customs  more  extensively  prevail,  that  this  profound 
deference  to  the  married  tie  may  be  loosened.  Let, 


THE    WIFE.  145 

every  unmarried  woman  then,  by  the  sanctity  of  her 
deportment,  check  the  first  impulse  to  overleap  the 
barriers  which  are  her  dearest  safeguard,  and  let 
every  married  man  remember  when  he  trifles  with 
the  young  and  inexperienced,  that  he  desecrates  a 
-'  holy  temple." 

A  MATRON, 


146  THE    GAMESTER. 


THE  GAMESTER. 

They  came  before  the  altar  in  their  love, 
"  And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful." 
He  stood  in  strength,  and  she  in  trustingness. 
The  dark  curls,  flung  from  off  his  open  brow, 
Revealed  its  Jove-like  fullness,  while  her  hair 
With  free  and  floating  tresses,  veil'd  the  cheek 
That  blush'd  and  paled  in  beautiful  surprise, 
As  the  strong  waves  of  hope  and  memory, 
With  struggling  current,  mov'd  her  depth  of  heart. 
Firm  was  his  step,  like  one  whose  soul  is  nerv'd 
For  combat  with  the  world ;  a  rock  for  life's 
Rough  waves  to  dash  on ;  while  her  airy  tread 
"  Scarce  from  the  heath-flower  dash'd  the  morning  dew." 

They  sought  that  fair  and  solitary  home  ; — 
Fit  residence  !     The  silent  trees  stood  round, 
Nor  mock'd  young  love's  first  tenderness.     Spring  flowers 
Look'd  up  and  smil'd  ;  and  happy  birds  thrill'd  out 
The  epithalamium  chaunt.     It  was  the  heart's 
Fresh  holiday. 

A  rolling  year  went  by, 

"  When  on  their  eyes  a  new  existence  smil'd," 
And  Agnes  clasp' d  a  babe,  a  living  boy 
To  her  young  throbbing  breast,  and  Winton  press'd 
His  lips,  with  thoughts  that  man  but  once  can  know, 
Upon  his  first-born's  brow.     Oh  was  not  this 
Earth's  Paradise  ?     Alas,  that  in  its  path 
A  serpent  should  arise  with  specious  wile ! 

A  change  came  o'er  that  scene  of  quiet  bliss, 
And  Agnes'  soft  caress  and  the  boy's  smile 
Fell  cold  on  Winton's  heart ;  he  stray'd  from  home ; 


THE    GAMESTER.  147 

His  brow  grew  pale,  abstracted,  and  dark  words 
Broke  muttering  through  his  sleep.    Rumor  awoke 
Whispering  of  guilty  haunts,  and  rumor  grew 
To  dreadful  certainty. 

One  night,  among 

The  reckless  band  that  seek  the  gamester's  hall, 
Frantic,  young  Winton  stood,  a  ruin'd  man. 
With  staggering  step,  clench'd  hands  and  fiery  eyes 
He  wildly  raved  ;  then,  crush'd  and  impotent, 
As  thoughts  of  home  and  Agnes  cross'd  his  mind, 
Lean'd  his  hot,  aching  brow  upon  his  hand. 
Ha  !  is  it  so  ?    A  mirror  to  his  eye 
Discloses  signs  and  looks,  from  one  in  view, 
That  speak  of  fraud  and  trickery  !     Winton  sprang, 
And  with  a  bound  fierce  as  a  tiger's  leap, 
Level 'd  a  blow  with  word  opprobrious. 

The  morning  light  rose  coldly  on  his  eyes  ; 
That  eve  must  stamp  him  murderer,  or  must  lay 
His  senseless  form  within  a  hurried  grave. 

He  call'd  on  one  who  long  had  lov'd  and  warn'd, 
(Alas,  how  fruitlessly  he  lov'd  and  warn'd  !) 
To  aid  him  in  the  coming  scene  of  blood. 
The  good  physician  went.     Strange  courtesies 
Pass'd  round  ;  the  studied  bow,  the  measur'd  step, 
And  gravely  busy  air.    Upon  a  mound 
He  sat,  and  mark'd  the  scene.     There  was  the  sky 
Expanding  its  wide  arms  in  love  ;  the  trees 
Were  whispering  kindness  ;  blossoms  smilingly 
Turn'd  their  soft  leaves  upon  the  passing  breeze, 
Which  kissed  them  as  it  rov'd  ;  —  all,  all  but  man 
In  harmony  with  heaven. 

His  heart  was  touch'd  ; 

Thought  with  its  busy  tide  came  deep  and  strong  ; 
Earth  seem'd  a  speck, —  eternity  was  all ; 
And  on  that  mound  arose  his  solemn  vow, 
That  never,  while  the  life-blood  filPd  his  veins, 


148  THE    GAMESTER. 

And  reason  kept  her  throne,  would  he,  by  thought 
Or  word  or  deed  or  presence,  sanction  give 
To  the  duello's  dark  and  murderous  rite. 

Fierce  was  the  cry  for  blood  ;  the  signal  pass'd ; 
Life  gush'd,  and  Winton  was  a  murderer. 

Rapid  his  fate  ;  the  stone  that  from  the  height 
Of  some  far  mountain  dashes  to  the  earth, 
Falls  not  more  certainly  than  he  who  seeks 
The  downward  progress  of  the  gamester's  way. 
***** 

Whose  is  that  spectral  form,  that  by  the  light 
Of  new-born  day  seeks  the  cold  casement's  air, 
And  strains  her  sight  with  yet  a  lingering  hope 
Her  lov'd  one  may  return  ?    For  he  is  lov'd 
As  woman  still  will  love  through  slight  and  shame. 
'Tis  Agnes,  sad  and  chill ;  the  bright  rose  gone 
That  deck'd  her  cheek,  the  elastic  step  subdued, 
Her  soft  eye  dim  with  tears  that  fall  in  showers 
Upon  her  sleeping  boy. 

He  comes,  but  how  ? 

The  intended  victim  of  self-murder.     Pale 
And  weak  he  lies,  by  menial  arms  upborne, 
And  Agnes  kneels  beside  him,  bathes  his  brow 
With  her  soft  hands,  calls  fondly  on  his  name 
In  tones  as  soft  as  when,  a  blushing  girl, 
She  dared  to  breathe  it  only  to  the  winds. 
She,  the  high  born,  the  beautiful,  the  good, 
For  him  prays  fondly.     She  is  heard.     He  lives. 

Lives  !     What  is  life  ?     Is  it  to  breathe  earth's  air, 
To  tread  its  soil,  to  eat,  to  drink,  to  sleep  ? 
This  is  not  life.    The  man  that  knows  but  this, 
Had  better  sink  in  dust,  in  dark  oblivion. 
He  only  lives  whose  soul  is  blent  with  Heaven, 
Like  dew  that  falls  at  night  to  rise  at  morn. 

The  gamester  lived,  revived  —  on  Agnes'  brow 
To  stamp  deep  furrows  ;  sear  her  gentle  heart 


THE    GAMESTER.  149 

With  unheal'd  wounds,  and  fill  his  cup  of  sin 
With  the  deep  scandal  of  a  felon's  crime. 
He  died  —  a  hiss  of  scorn  and  infamy 
Went  up  upon  his  grave,  his  boy  unlearn'd 
The  name  of  father,  and  his  drooping  wife, 
With  downcast  eyes,  went  sorrowing  to  the  tomb, 


150  THE    DISFIGURED    MINIATURE. 


THE  DISFIGURED  MINIATURE. 

Alas  !     I  cannot  trace  the  beams 
That  sparkle  in  thy  soft,  dark  eye, 

Like  summer  lightning's  chasten'd  gleams, 
That  linger  on  an  evening  sky. 

And  lost,  too,  is  the  gentle  smile, 
That,  like  a  sunbeam  over  flowers, 

Has  danced  upon  thy  lips  the  while 
And  charm 'd  my  gay  or  anxious  hours. 

The  quick  idea  genius  gave, 
The  cold  reflection  reason  wove, 

Study's  deep  thought,  abstruse  and  grave, 
And  gentler  looks  that  told  of  love  ; 

The  glance  benevolent  and  kind, 
That  banish'd  pain,  distrust  and  fear, 

All  these  in  vain  I  seek  to  find, 

And  sigh  to  think  they  are  not  here. 

And  yet  I  cast  thee  not  away  — 

Poor  image  of  a  face  divine  ! 
But  clasp  thee  to  my  heart,  and  say, 

"  Deform'd,  yet  precious,  thou  art  mine !" 

Oh !  when  the  hand  of  withering  care, 
Shall  bid,  like  this,  thy  beauty  fade, 

Or  sickness  plant  her  farrows  where 
The  bloom  of  youth  has  brightly  stray'd, 

Then  may'st  thou  prize  the  faithful  heart, 
That  like  the  flower  of  night  —  perfume, 

Asks  no  parterre  where  sunbeams  dart, 
But  blossoms  gladly  'mid  the  gloom. 


THE    STUDENT    OF    VALENCIA.  151 


THE  STUDENT  OF  VALENCIA. 


In  the  studio  of  an  artist  at  Valencia,  in  Spain, 
about  the  year  1550,  surrounded  by  the  designs  of 
his  master,  worked,  or  dreamed,  from  day  to  day,  his 
pupil,  Francisco  di  Ribalta,  giving  himself  up  to  idle 
musings  rather  than  to  the  inspiration  of  his  art. 
At  times  stimulated  by  the  stern  rebuke  or  biting 
satire  of  his  master,  he  seized  his  brush,  and  dashed 
off  strokes  of  such  gusto  and  power  as  showed  that 
perseverance  rather  than  genius  was  wanting  to  give 
him  a  name  in  his  profession ;  sometimes  those  very 
rebukes  provoked  him  to  obstinacy,  his  dark  eyes 
flashed,  and  his  compressed  brows  showed  an  inward 
stirring  of  the  vindictive  spirit ;  but  oftener  he  might 
be  seen  lost  in  delicious  reveries,  gazing  covertly  on 
the  likeness  of  a  girl  whose  slight  and  airy  figure 
was  contrasted  by  the  terrible  beauty  of  patriarchs 
and  martyrs,  saints  and  angels,  which  stood  out 
strong  in  the  chiaro-oscuro  which  characterized  the 
altar  pieces  around.  The  picture  was  frequently  re 
moved  for  convenience  from  place  to  place  in  the 
apartment,  to  give  room  to  others.  Sometimes  it 


152         THE  STUDENT  OF  VALENCIA. 

was  thrown  quite  in  the  shade,  where  only  a  gleam 
of  one  of  the  lustrous  eyes  beamed  upon  the  young 
artist ;  sometimes  the  finely  turned  shoulder  projected 
from  behind  the  heavy  form  of  a  Judas,  or  the  dark 
curls  rose  above  the  feathered  wing  of  a  cupid ;  and 
at  length,  one  morning  when  Ribalta  entered  the 
studio,  he  perceived  it  unceremoniously  turned  to  the 
wall,  and  the  artist's  foot  placed  against  it  as  he  stood 
sketching  a  saint's  head.  Various  were  the  manreu- 
vres  of  the  youth  to  restore  this  gem  of  his  love  to  a 
spot  where  he  could  gaze  without  obstruction  on  its 
transcendent  loveliness.  Restless  and  dissatisfied,  he 
threw  on  his  colors  awhile  with  careless  profusion, 
and  then  sat  gazing  listlessly  on  his  pallet  until  the 
hues  were  lost  as  in  a  prism. 

"  To  work,  idler,  to  work,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a 
tone  of  authority. 

Ribalta  might  have  answered  unadvisedly,  but  a 
slight  tap  at  the  door,  and  the  airy  figure  of  Isabel 
the  artist's  daughter,  arrested  him.  As  she  entered, 
the  concentrated  light  was  shed  on  her  like  a  glory, 
while  a  blush,  a  suffusion  as  if  the  vermilion  of  the 
student  had  been  showered  on  her  neck  and  face, 
rushed  over  her,  and  then  subsided  into  chastened 
rose-tints,  as  she  recovered  herself  from  her  low  and 
graceful  salutation.  Having  completed  her  errand  to 


THE    STUDENT    OF    VALENCIA.  153 

her  father,  she  discovered  her  likeness  in  its  dishon 
ored  condition. 

"  My  father,  is  it  thus  you  treat  your  poor  Isabel !  " 
said  she,  smiling,  as  the  old  man  withdrew  his  foot 
from  the  position  it  had  occupied. 

Stooping  down,  she  removed  the  picture,  and 
throwing  her  left  arm  across  the  top,  with  a  fold  of  her 
veil  lightly  brushed  away  the  dust  that  had  gathered 
over  it.  The  act  brought  her  own  head  in  contact 
with  the  picture,  the  sunny  eyes  of  which  glanced 
through  her  curls.  An  exclamation  of  admiration 
burst  from  the  lips  of  the  student.  The  artist,  who 
had  laid  one  of  his  powerful  touches  on  the  eyebrow 
of  his  saint,  appropriated  the  compliment  and  nodded 
complacently,  but  the  stroke  which  was  to  go  down 
to  posterity  was  lost  on  Ribalta ;  his  eyes  were  riv 
eted  on  the  living  picture  before  him  with  a  look 
which  made  her  speedily  withdraw,  another  daylight 
glow  mantling  on  her  cheek. 

The  rough  tone  of  his  master  roused  the  youth 
from  a  reverie,  if  that  can  be  called  a  reverie  where 
thought  is  concentrated  on  one  sole  object.  The  deep 
gaze  which  had  followed  Isabel  until  her  floating  gar 
ments  disappeared,  reverted  to  the  picture  with  a 
thrilling  joy  that  he  might  dwell  unrebuked  on  its 
passive  charms.  The  love  of  the  beautiful  had  long 
11 


154  THE    STUDENT    OF    VALENCIA. 

been  brooding  over  his  soul,  but  the  turbid  waters  of 
passionate  youth  had  hardly  yet  shown  a  leaf  of 
promise.  It  was  for  Isabel  to  be  the  dove  to  find  that 
sign,  and  equalize  his  character.  She  alone  now  oc 
cupied  his  thoughts,  whether  moving  in  modest  grace 
with  averted  eyes,  or  whether  her  silent  image  turned 
those  beaming  orbs  on  his.  Study  was  forgotten,  or 
but  reverted  to  as  a  glass  where  he  might  trace  her 
charms  in  some  new  modification. 

In  this  state  of  feeling  the  artist  assigned  to  him 
the  shading  of  a  fair-browed  cupid.  The  pupil,  blind 
as  the  god  before  him,  and  dreaming  only  of  the  dark 
curls  of  Isabel,  drew  the  like  raven  tresses  over  the 
blue  eyes  of  the  little  deity.  It  was  not  long  before 
both  he  and  the  artist  discovered  the  inappropriate 
peruke  of  the  god.  A  storm  of  wrath  came  down 
on  Ribalta,  who,  blushing  and  alarmed,  in  vain  en 
deavored  to  produce  the  feathery  touch  of  flaxen 
curls  on  the  desecrated  head. 

On  the  evening  of  that  day  Isabel  sat  in  her  bal 
cony.  The  Guadalquiver  lay  in  brightness  before 
her,  enlivened  by  gondolas  darting  here  and  there  in 
the  glow  of  the  declining  sun,  as  he  shot  up  rays  of 
light  and  beauty  in  that  golden  clime.  The  perfume 
of  the  orange  and  mulberry  was  wafted  on  the  breeze, 
while  the  branches  of  the  palm  rose  and  fell  on  the 


THE    STUDENT    OF   VALENCIA.  155 

air  like  a  graceful  band  upon  the  harp  strings.  Richly 
attired  ladies  and  plumed  cavaliers,  released  from  the 
heat  of  mid-day,  issued  forth  to  enjoy  a  walk  on  the 
Alameda,  inhaling  the  odor  and  reveling  in  the 
beauty  and  nature.  Amid  its  wildness  and  unfixed- 
ness  youth  loves  to  moralize,  and  the  tongue  which 
has  uttered  words  of  levity,  and  the  eye  which  has 
seemingly  followed  only  the  butterflies  of  existence, 
will  be  arrested  by  high  and  serious  thoughts,  as 
waves  dancing  and  swelling  in  the  sunbeam  pause 
around  a  rock.  The  indwelling  spirit  of  God  looks 
through  its  veil  in  almost  every  period  of  life,  and 
asks  lofty  questions  of  truth  and  eternity.  Isabel 
stopped  in  the  midst  of  a  careless  tune,  her  fingers  still 
between  the  leaves  of  a  ballad  of  the  times,  to  look 
abroad  on  nature  as  the  landscape  closed  in  in  mel 
low  darkness,  and  a  religious  peace  dwelt  around  her 
heart  while  a  prayer  to  the  virgin  rose  upon  her  lips. 
Ribalta  came,  and  the  lofty  look  of  religious  trust 
was  changed  to  the  bright  glow  of  welcome.  They 
sat  together  in  the  dim  beauty  of  twilight,  and  with 
hearts  open  to  the  poetry  of  mind  and  nature,  poured 
out  the  softest  sympathies  ;  they  saw  the  evening  star 
arise,  the  moon  looked  out  on  her  silvery  way,  the 
breeze  bore  along  the  breath  of  flowers,  and  they  gave 


156  THE    STUDENT    OF    VALENCIA. 

their  grateful  tribute  by  loading  its  wings  with  happy 
.songs. 

"  You  will  be  mine,"  said  Ribalta.  "  Let  not 
doubts  and  tears  accompany  me  again  to  my  pillow, 
when  one  word  can  strew  it  with  dreams  of  bliss." 

"  I  cannot  give  that  word  without  my  father's 
will,"  said  Isabel.  "  I  have  nursed  even  his  infir 
mities  of  mind  until  they  seem  sacred  to  me.  Gain 
his  consent  and  you  have  mine,"  and  the  noble  girl 
sealed  the  frank  promise  by  laying  her  hand  within 
her  lover's. 

"  Your  father  never  will  consent,"  said  Ribalta. 
"  He  hates  me,  and  gives  all  his  ear  to  Pietro,  with 
his  prate  of  technicalities  and  rules  of  art,  and  his 
straight  lines  as  if  the  world  was  made  of  angles." 

"  Nay,"  said  Isabel,  half  laughing,  "  I  never  heard, 
I  confess,  that  Pietro  represented  cupid  with  dark 
hair.  How  can  you  expect  to  be  approved  in  such 
wilfulness  ?  You  commit  high  treason  against  me 
when  you  disfigure  Love." 

Thus  sped  the  evening,  and  the  morning  brought 
Ribalta  to  the  studio;  his  heart  was  full,  and  on  the 
entrance  of  the  artist  he  threw  down  his  pallet, 
poured  out  deep  arid  earnest  vows  of  honorable  love 
and  besought  the  hand  of  Isabel.  The  old  man  with 


THE    STUDENT    OF    VALENCIA.  157 

a  half  rueful,  half  comical  air,  pointed  to  the  cupid 
with  his  nondescript  curls,  and  shook  his  head.  Ki- 
balta  blushed,  apologized,  pleaded  his  love,  and  the 
old  man  bade  him  hope.  So  a  few  days  passed,  and 
hope  did  her  kindly  work,  and  lent  patience  to  the 
lover's  soul,  and  every  evening  he  sought  his  reward 
in  the  bower  of  his  beloved. 

At  length  there  came  one  morning  an  Englishman 
to  the  studio  of  his  master.  He  was  attired  in  a  deep 
mourning  suit,  and  there  was  a  depth  of  grief  on  his 
countenance  painful  to  the  beholder.  He  passed  list 
lessly  around  the  apartment,  scarcely  attracted  by 
any  of  the  designs,  until  his  eye  fell  on  the  picture  of 
Isabel.  He  started  —  a  brightness  passed  over  his  eye 
like  stars  in  the  rack  of  a  cloud,  an  awe,  as  if  angel 
garments  had  floated  by,  and  he  exclaimed,  "  My 
child,  rny  Emily."  Eibalta  heard  the  words,  and 
looked  up  from  the  easel.  He  observed  the  stranger 
approach  and  address  the  artist  in  earnest  tones,  who 
shook  his  head  as  if  in  denial ;  the  stranger's  manner 
then  became  more  earnest,  and  his  gesticulations  be 
trayed  strong  excitement,  while  he  pressed  a  heavy 
purse  on  the  old  man,  who  refused  it  as  though  it 
were  dross  compared  with  the  jewel  he  sought,  and 
let  it  fall  on  the  floor  unheeded.  Then  followed  a 
lower  tone,  a  choking  utterance,  as  if  the  heart  were 


158  THE    STUDENT    OF    VALENCIA. 

struggling  to  be  heard,  and  the  stranger's  handker 
chief  was  passed  across  his  eyes,  while  Ribalta  with 
instinctive  delicacy  lowered  his  to  his  easel.  But  a 
new  movement  induced  him  to  look  again.  Two 
servants  in  livery  entered,  and  the  artist  directed 
them  to  remove  the  picture  of  Isabel.  They  started 
as  they  saw  its  youthful  beauty ;  the  elder  of  the  two 
shaded  his  face  for  a  moment  with  an  air  of  reverence ; 
the  younger  clasping  his  hands  together  exclaimed, 
"Miss  Emily!"  while  the  stranger,  his  enthusiasm 
subdued,  stood  with  folded  arms  watching  their  move 
ments,  while  tenderly  as  a  relic,  they  bore  the  picture 
away.  They  were  gone,  the  artist  followed,  and 
Ribalta  was  alone.  It  was  so  sudden  —  so  dream 
like  !  He  looked  round  the  apartment,  and  it  seemed 
deserted.  A  mysterious  sadness  possessed  him,  a 
presentiment  that  thus  might  Isabel  be  torn  away; 
he  strode  the  floor,  and  as  his  foot  struck  the  forgotten 
purse  he  spurned  it  like  a  viper. 

On  this  memorable  morning  the  artist  had  entrusted 
to  his  pupil  for  some  touches,  a  head  of  St.  John,  on 
which  he  had  bestowed  much  thought  and  care.  On 
returning  to  the  apartment  and  examining  the  pro 
gress  of  the  work,  what  was  his  dismay  to  find  the 
bland  and  beautiful  expression  converted  to  that  of  a 
demon,  and  his  labor  gone  forever !  With  an  irrita- 


THE    STUDENT    OF    VALENCIA.  159 


bility  naturally  increased  by  the  scene  that  had 
in  which  he  had  unwillingly  parted  with  the  likeness 
of  his  child  to  comfort  a  bereaved  parent,  he»no  sooner 
saw  the  wreck  of  his  picture,  than  he  poured  forth  a 
storm  of  indignation  on  the  youth,  bade  him  quit  his 
presence  forever,  and  swore  that  "  a  dauber  should 
never  marry  his  Isabel." 

The  balcony  that  witnessed  their  first  vows  saw 
the  parting  of  the  lovers.  Ribalta  lay  despairing,  at 
Isabel's  feet.  He  had  urged  the  burning  arguments 
of  passion  to  induce  his  beloved  one  to  share  his 
lonely  exile  in  vain. 

"  I  cannot  leave  my  father,"  said  Isabel,  mournfully ; 
i(  the  poor  old  man  loves  nothing  on  earth  but  me. 
Go,  Ribalta,  win  a  name  and  return  to  claim  me. 
As  I  am  true  to  him,  so  will  I  be  true  to  you." 

Long  and  bitter  was  their  parting ;  and  on  the 
morrow,  when  Isabel  returned  to  her  bower,  there 
was  a  cloud  on  her  young  spirit.  She  gazed  with  a 
wild  and  piercing  eye  on  the  spot  where  his  parting 
plume  had  disappeared,  until  coming  forms  unwove 
the  spell  of  memory. 

Ribalta  turned  his  steps  to  Italy,  with  a  noble  re 
solve  to  win  a  name  and  claim  his  bride.  He  followed 
the  path  of  science  untired,  kindling  into  thought  and 
hopes  that  nerved  his  arm  to  toil.  The  gray  dawn 


160  THE    STUDENT    OF    VALENCIA. 

found  him  a  watcher,  and  its  first  beams  fell  on  his 
ready  imagination,  while  with  a  strained  and  doubtful 
eye,  he  urged  his  midnight  task,  and  when  the  pic 
ture  grew  upon  his  touch,  and  his  kindling  glance 
told  him  that  he  had  stamped  truth  and  beauty  on 
the  canvass,  he  shouted  in  his  solitude,  Isabel !  Isabel ! 

Three  years  passed  away,  and  the  lovely  Isabel 
ripened  like  rich  fruit  by  her  father's  side ;  and  while 
her  lover  was  drawing  ideal  forms  on  earthly  canvass, 
her  filial  piety  was  a  picture  for  angels. 

"  Is  he  not  my  father  ?  "  she  would  say,  when  some 
little  trial  of  her  forbearance  arose.  "  If  I  respect  and 
serve  him  not,  who  will  ?  "  Then  seeking  his  studio, 
she  arranged  the  light  for  his  failing  eyes,  and  with 
her  book  or  work  sat  near  to  aid  his  wishes. 

One  morning  he  left  her  to  examine  some  pictures 
of  a  brother  artist,  and  Isabel,  released  for  the  day 
from  her  filial  cares,  turned  to  the  shaded  balcony  to 
arrange  her  flowers.  There  was  one  she  had  never 
slighted  —  the  gift  of  Ribalta.  She  had  kissed  its 
leaves,  prayed  over  its  blossoms,  and  near  that  flower 
was  she  bending  when  a  footstep  startled  her.  It  was 
he,  Ribalta,  pale  and  attenuated  —  but  0,  the  intel 
lectual  beauty  that  sat  upon  his  brow !  Few  were 
their  words  of  fond  and  passionate  sympathy,  and 
they  passed  hastily  to  the  artist's  room.  A  noble 


THE    STUDENT    OF    VALENCIA.  161 

sketch  lay  unfinished  on  the  easel,  Ribalta  caught  up 
the  brush  and  wrought  as  if  soul  were  in  his  touch. 
The  picture  grew,  and  the  colors  stood  out  in  their 
rich  blend  ings  all  gloriously.  Isabel  was  by,  and 
now  triumphant  laughter  broke  from  her  opened  lips  ; 
now  tears  stood  in  her  eyes  ;  now  a  prayer  to  the 
Virgin  rose  from  her  heart,  and  now  she  stamped  her 
foot  in  irrepressible  excitement,  while  he,  stirred  by 
the  genius  of  his  art,  waved  his  arm  over  the  canvass, 
bound  heart  and  eye  to  that  one  growing  image, 
scarcely  heeding  the  young  creature  who  stood  half 
breathless  beside  him. 

A  glorious  sunset  poured  in  on  the  painting  after 
that  day  of  toil.  A  step  approached,  and  Ribalta 
panting  and  exhausted  retreated  behind  a  neighboring 
picture  frame. 

The  artist  entered,  started,  raised  his  hand  to  his 
brow,  rubbed  his  dim  eyes,  walked  again  andagain 
around  the  picture,  and  then  grasping  Isabel's  hand, 
exclaimed  — 

"Whose  magic  is  this,  my  girl?  Think  you  I 
would  wed  you  to  the  dauber  Ribalta?  None  but 
this  painter  deserves  you  for  a  bride." 

RibaHa,  springing  from  his  concealment,  clasped 
the  yielding  form  of  Isabel  to  his  heart,  and  kneeling 
beside  her  sire,  they  asked  and  received  his  blessing. 


162  FRANCISCO    DE    KIBALTA. 


FRANCISCO   DE   FJBALTA, 

THE    SPANISH    ARTIST. 
A   BALLAD. 

A  gathering  spot  glowed  burningly 
On  young  Ribalta's.brow, 

As  he  stood  on  fair  Valencia's  plain, 
And  breathed  a  parting  vow. 

For  neither  name  nor  wealth  had  he, 
Yet  sweetly  on  him  smiled 

The  young  and  lovely  Isabel, 
His  master's  only  child. 

"  Farewell !  farewell !  my  Isabel, 
Mine,  though  I  wander  far,  — 

My  love  shall  still  shine  over  thee, 
Like  yonder  distant  star. 

"  I  feel  within  my  restless  soul 
The  power  to  toil  and  die, 

Or  fix  upon  the  scroll  of  fame, 
My  name  in  letters  high. 

"  And  dearest !  I  will  come  again, 
Though  he  may  now  deride. 

And  in  thy  father's  presence  claim 
My  own,  my  gentle  bride. 


FRANCISCO    DE    RIBALTA.  163 

"  He  spurned  me  ;  but  the  goading  word 

To  thee  alone  I  tell  ;  — 
He  said  '  a  dauber  ne'er  should  wed 

His  peerless  Isabel.'  " 

She  spoke  not,  but  her  beaming  eye 

Looked  eloquently  kind, 
And  her  young  fingers  in  his  own 

Were  trustingly  entwined. 

One  single,  solitary  tear 

Came  trickling  down,  the  while  ; 
He  kissed  the  falling  gem  away  ;  — 

'T  was  followed  by  a  smile. 

And  not  until  his  waving  plume 

Had  parted  from  her  sight, 
Seemed  she  to  feel  the  cloudiness 

Upon  her  hope's  young  light. 

0  what  a  wild  and  piercing  gaze 

Is  that  we  throw  upon 
The  sacred  spot  where  one  has  stood 

Who  loved  us,  and  is  gone  ! 

And  what  a  sigh  upheaves  the  soul 

When  stranger-forms  pass  by, 
And  with  their  dark,  ungenial  shade, 

Unspell  the  memory ! 

Ribalta  'neath  Italia' s  skies 

Pursued  the  path  to  fame, 
Untired  he  followed  where  it  led, 

With  thoughts  and  hopes  of  flame. 

He  watched  the  day -dawn's  earliest  ray 
To  urge  his  pictured  toil, 


164  FRANCISCO    DE    RIBALTA. 

And  bent  with  strained  and  doubtful  eye 
Beneath  the  midnight  oil. 

And  when  upon  his  growing  work 

His  kindling  glances  fell, 
A  gush  of  joy  came  o'er  his  heart, 

That  spake  of  Isabel. 

Three  circling  years  his  gentle  love 
Hushed  up  her  widowed  soul ; 

And  if  a  sigh  escaped  her  heart, 
Hope  through  the  current  stole. 

At  length  he  came  in  manly  truth ; 

He  heard  her  whispered  tone, 
Her  eye-beam  sank  into  his  soul, 

And  she  was  still  his  own. 

Soon  to  her  father's  vacant  room 
They  passed  with  stealthy  tread  — 

There  on  the  easel  temptingly, 
A  noble  sketch  was  spread. 

Eager,  Kibalta  seized  the  brush 
And  wrought  as  life  were  there, 

The  picture  grew,  and  every  stroke 
Stood  out  with  colors  rare. 

And  Isabel  looked  breathless  on 
With  eyes  and  hands  upraised, 

And  large  drops  beaded  on  his  brow 
As  thus  she  stood  and  gazed. 

'Tis  done  —  and  now  a  coming  step, 
Her  father's  step  is  heard  ; 

Ribalta,  shrinking  from  his  sight, 
Stifles  the  whispered  word. 


FRANCISCO    DE    RIBALTA.  165 

The  master  starts  —  so  beautiful 

The  new  creation  shone,  — 
The  color,  shade,  expression  too, 

More  lovely  than  his  own  ? 

"  Why  girl,  there's  magic  in  this  touch, 

The  enraptured  painter  cried, 
"And  only  he  who  wrought  this  work, 

Deserves  thee  for  his  bride." 

A  moment  —  and  Ribalta's  arm 

Encircled  that  fair  maid, 
While  at  her  father's  knee  they  knelt, 

And  for  his  blessing  prayed. 


166  MR.    INKLIN,    OR 


MR.  INKLIN, 

OR    THE    MAN    OF   LEISURE. 

Mrs.  Sheridan,  a  happy  wife  and  mother,  having 
concluded  the  bustle  of  a  housekeeper's  morning,  as 
cended  to  her  bed-room  with  the  agreeable  conscious 
ness  of  a  neat  parlor  and  pantry,  and  commenced 
the  important  business  of  cutting  out  a  piece  of  linen. 
The  smooth  surface  of  a  well  made  bed  was  appro 
priated  to  this  somewhat  intricate  process,  on  which, 
humble  as  it  seems,  the  happiness  of  one's  husband 
greatly  depends.  There  is  scarcely  a  more  forlorn 
or  pitiable  object  in  the  universe,  than  a  man,  who 
putting  on  a  new  shirt  perceives  some  radical  defect, 
with  the  awful  consciousness  that  nine,  fifteen  or 
twenty  more  are  cut  upon  the  same  pattern.  It  so 
happened  that  Mr.  Sheridan  had  detected,  almost 
with  complacency,  the  incipient  decay  of  a  set  of 
shirts  that  had  kept  his  neck  as  in  a  vice  for  a  year 
and  a  half,  and  with  many  injunctions  to  his  wife  to 
be  merciful,  had  purchased  a  piece  of  new  linen. 

Mrs.  Sheridan  began  her  work  with  a  light  heart, 
and  humming  a  low  tune,  placed  the  various  pieces 
on  different  parts  of  the  bed  in  the  most  systematic 


THE    MAN    OF    LEISURE.  1G7 

manner.  It  is  delightful  to  create ;  and  the  humble 
evolutions  of  the  needle  and  scissors  have  healed 
many  a  wounded  heart ;  but  to  work  for  those  we 
love,  gives  an  added  charm  to  this  seemingly  humble 
employment.  Mrs.  Sheridan  went  tripping  lightly 
round  the  bed  to  the  growing  tumuli  of  gussets, 
wristbands,  &c.,  looking  back  to  her  life  of  placid 
duty,  where  even  the  clouds  that  had  sometimes 
shaded  her  path  were  tinged  with  the  light  of  love 
and  hope. 

She  had  not  advanced  far  in  the  progress  of  her 
work,  when  a  ring  at  the  door-bell  was  heard,  and  a 
visiter  announced.  She  smoothed  down  the  border 
of  her  pretty  morning  cap,  and  with  a  sorrowful  part 
ing  glance  at  the  bed,  descended  to  the  parlor. 

The  visiter  was  Mr.  Inklin,  a  broken  merchant, 
who  had  contrived  to  save  just  enough  for  his  sup 
port  without  energy  to  strike  into  new  plans,  though 
it  was  his  intention  to  enter  upon  some  occupation  at 
a  future  day.  Mr.  Inklin  had  no  gift  in  conversa 
tion  ;  his  voice  was  an  anodyne,  and  his  sleepy  eyes 
seemed  wandering  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Noth 
ing  is  so  chilling  in  conversation  as  an  unariswering 
eye.  Besides  this  unfixed  look,  he  kept  up  perpetu 
ally  a  grunting  kind  of  affirmative  which  destroyed 
the  hope  that  a  difference  of  opinion  might  stimulate 


168  MR.    INKLE,    OR 

his  ideas.  He  dressed  well,  and  made  great  use  of 
his  watch  key.  Most  men  of  leisure  do. 

The  man  of  leisure  sat  down  composedly,  remark 
ing  that  the  day  was  fine. 

Mrs.  Sheridan  assented,  and  tried  to  recollect  if  she 
had  stuck  a  pin  as  a  guide  where  she  had  drawn  the 
last  thread  in  the  linen. 

Mr.  Inklin  enlarged  upon  the  weather.  "  It  had 
been  warm,"  he  asserted,  "  perhaps  warmer  than  it 
was  that  time  twelve-month.  Warm  weather  agreed 
with  him.  He  thought  it  might  last  a  few  days 
longer  —  it  was  apt  to  in  June." 

Mrs.  Sheridan  looked  towards  him  as  he  spoke, 
but  it  was  silently  to  observe  that  his  shirt  collar  was 
more  pointed  than  Mr.  Sheridan's. 

"  You  have  a  quiet  time,"  said  the  man  of  leisure, 
"  with  the  children  at  school." 

"  Yes,  sir,  very  quiet,"  said  Mrs.  Sheridan,  falling 
into  a  reverie,  as  she  thought  how  well  it  was  adapted 
to  cutting  out  shirts. 

Mr.  Inklin  went  through  the  commonplace  matter 
of  morning  visiters,  with  many  a  resting  place  be 
tween,  until  he  remarked  that  "  the  wind  was  rising." 
Mrs.  Sheridan  had  observed  it  too,  with  a  feeling  of 
dismay  at  the  prospect  of  the  commingling  of  all  her 
shirt  elements. 


THE    MAN    OF    LEISURE.  169 

The  man  of  leisure  staid  an  hour,  (he  liked  a 
morning  visit  one  hour  long,)  and  then  exclaiming, 
as  the  hand  of  his  watch  turned  the  expected  point, 
"  bless  my  soul !  past  twelve  o'clock  !  "  made  his  bow 
and  departed. 

Mrs.  Sheridan  went  to  her  chamber.  The  wind 
was  whirling  neck,  sleeve  and  flap  gussets  in  uncere 
monious  heaps  ;  and  collars,  wristbands  and  facings 
were  dancing  in  eddies  on  the  floor.  In  her  agita 
tion  she  lost  the  important  boundary  pin,  and  an  error 
occurred  in  her  calculations.  The  shirts  were  made, 
but  for  eighteen  months  her  husband  never  took  one 
from  his  drawer  but  with  a  nervous  shudder  or  a 
suppressed  execration. 

THE    MAN    OF    LEISURE    IN    A    COUNTING-HOUSE. 

The  man  of  leisure  next  visited  the  counting-room 

of  B &  Co.,  and  socially  seating  himself  on  a 

barrel,  hoped  he  should  not  prevent  the  head  clerk, 
who  was  his  acquaintance,  from  writing. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  polite  clerk,  putting  his  pen 
behind  his  ear  with  a  constrained  air. 

"  Pray  don't  stop  on  my  account,"  said  Mr.  Ink- 
lin,  with  a  patronizing  smile. 

The  clerk  returned  to  his  accounts  and  letters, 
while  the  man  of  leisure  described,  with  somewhat 
12 


170  MR.    INKLIN,    OR 

more  animation  than  usual,  some  herring  he  had 
eaten  for  breakfast.  The  clerk  made  an  error  in  a 

figure,  which  cost  Messrs  B &  Co.  one  week  to 

rectify  ;  and  one  of  the  correspondents  of  the  firm  was 
shortly  after  surprised  with  the  announcement  by  let 
ter,  that  an  hundred  bales  of  pickled  herring  would 
shortly  be  forwarded  to  order. 

THE    MAN    OF    LEISURE    AND    HIS    MINISTEE. 

It  was  Saturday  night,  and  the  Rev.  Dr.  Ingram 
sat  in  his  study  with  his  sheets  before  him,  commen 
tators  and  lexicons  around  him,  and  a  well  mended 
pen  in  hand,  when  the  man  of  leisure  was  announced. 
He  entered  slowly  and  almost  diffidently,  so  that  the 
compression  of  the  Dr.'s  brow  produced  by  the  in 
terruption  gave  way  to  an  open  smile  of  encourage 
ment.  I  have  mentioned  that  Mr.  Inklin  was  taci 
turn,  and  not  only  that,  but  that  he  threw  an  opiate 
over  the  minds  of  his  associates  —  there  were  long 
pauses  in  that  long  hour,  and  the  good  words  of  the 
clergyman  fell  on  barren  ground.  At  length  Mr. 
Inklin  arose,  saying,  "  I  fear  I  have  broken  the  thread 
of  your  argument,  sir."  And  broken  it  was.  Dr. 
Ingram  retouched  the  nib  of  his  pen  ;  listlessly 
turned  the  pages  of  Clark,  Rosenmueller,  Grotius, 
&c.,  rubbed  his  forehead,  took  two  or  three  turns  across 


THE    MAN    OF    LEISURE.  171 

the  room,  and  threw  himself  on  a  seat  in  despair. 
The  impetus  was  gone  —  the  argument  was  frittered 
away ;  he  stole  off  to  bed,  and  dreamed  that  a  thirty- 
two  pounder  was  resting  on  his  chest,  with  the  man 
of  leisure  surmounting  it. 

THE    MAN    OF    LEISURE    AND    THE    POLITICIAN. 

As  Mr.  Inklin  was  walking  the  next  morning,  with 
his  usual  measured  step,  his  arm  was  touched  by  a 
serious  looking  gentleman  with  spectacles. 

"  Fine  weather,"  said  the  gentleman  in  specs. 

"  Uncommon  fine  ;  "  said  the  man  of  leisure, 
"  nine  more  days  of  fair  weather  this  month  than  the 
last," 

"  By  the  way,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  gentleman  in 
specs,  "  I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you  that  ^^^  has 
set  up  an  opposing  claim  to  the  office  for  which  I  am 
a  candidate.  My  friends  have  calculated  closely,  and 
it  is  ascertained  that  a  very  few  votes  will  turn  the 
scale  in  my  favor.  May  I  hope  for  your  aid  at  the 
election  tomorrow  ?  "  As  the  man  in  specs  concluded, 
he  cast  a  slightly  inquisitorial  glance  on  the  some 
what  worn-through,  well-brushed  suit  of  Mr.  Inklin. 

"  Assuredly,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  man  of  leisure, 
with  a  patronizing  air.  "  I  will  make  it  my  especial 
business  to  attend  to  your  interests." 


172  MR.    INKLIN,    OR 

Crowds  pressed  to  the  polls  on  the  following  day, 
at  the  appointed  hour.  The  man  in  specs  was  there, 
smiling  benignly.  The  opposing  candidate  was  an 
nounced  as  elected  by  a  majority  of  one. 

As  the  man  in  specs  walked  home  he  met  Mr. 
Inklin  coming  with  a  more  rapid  pace  than  usual, 
followed  by  two  men  in  ragged  jackets. 

"  Hope  I  am  not  too  late  with  my  friends,"  said  the 
man  of  leisure. 

The  politician's  lips  moved,  and  he  "  grinned 
ghastly."  His  words  were  inaudible,  but  his  thoughts 
were,  "  Wear  your  old  coat  and  be  hanged." 

THE    MAN    OF    LEISURE    AND    HIS    LAUNDRESS. 

"  Plase  your  honor,"  said  the  laundress,  as  she  laid 
two  nicely  bleached  shirts,  neck-cloths,  and  pocket- 
handkerchiefs  on  Mr.  Inklin's  dressing  table,  u  ye  are 
owing  for  three  months,  and  the  soap  and  the  starch 
and  the  firing  runs  up  a  heap,  and  my  good  man 
Patrick  that  should  be  a  help  lying  with  his  broken 
shoulther,  and  the  landlord  seeking  his  rent,  and  me 
not  able  to  tell  which  side  to  look,  and  poor  Patrick 
to  be  turned  out  of  doors  for  no  crime  at  all,  if  you 
plase,  sir." 

"  0,  really,  yes  ;  I  remember  hearing  of  Patrick's 
fall.  A  very  clever  fellow  that  husband  of  yours. 


THE    MAN    OF    LEISURE.  173 

Here  are  two  dollars,  and  I  will  give  you  the  remain 
ing  trifle  next  week." 

"  Trifle ! "  said  the  laundress,  counting  on  her 
ringers  the  amount  of  twelve  dollars  due,  as  she  left 
the  room,  "  that's  a  trifle  to  some  as  isn't  to  others.' 

Two  days  after,  while  the  man  of  leisure  was 
fastening  a  paste  brooch  in  his  smoothly  folded  shirt- 
bosom,  poor  Patrick  was  borne  to  the  work-house  for 
a  shelter. 

THE    MAN    OF    LEISURE    AND   A    PRETTY    GIRL. 

The  man  of  leisure  called  on  Miss  Emma  Rob 
erts,  a  pretty  blooming  girl  of  seventeen.  Emma 
was  clear-starching.  Talk  about  the  trials  of  men  ! 
What  have  they  to  annoy  them  in  comparison  with 
the  mysteries  of  clear-starching ;  alas,  how  seldom 
clear !  Emma  was  going  on  in  the  full  tide  of  suc 
cess,  indulging  in  the  buoyant  thoughts  of  her  age ; 
there  was  a  soft  light  about  her  eye,  as  she  drew  out 
the  edge  of  ajichu,  or  clapped  it  with  her  small  hands, 
as  if  they  felt  the  impulse  of  young  hopes. 

"  I  am  sure  Harry  Bertram  looked  at  this  collar 
last  Sunday ;  I  wonder  if  he  liked  it,"  thought  she, 
and  a  gentle  sigh  rustled  the  folds  of  the  morning 
robe  on  her  bosom.  Just  then  the  door-bell  sounded, 
and  the  man  of  leisure  walked  into  the  sitting-room, 


174  MR.    INKLIN,    OR 

where  Emma,  with  a  nice  establishment  of  smoothing- 
irons,  &c.  had  ensconced  herself  for  the  morning. 

"  You  won't  mind  a  friend's  looking  in  upon  you," 
said  Mr.  Inldin,  with  an  at-home  air. 

Emma  blushed,  loosened  the  strings  of  her  apron, 
gave  a  glance  at  her  starched  fingers,  and  saying 
"  take  a  seat,  sir,"  suspended  her  work  with  the  grace 
of  natural  politeness.  In  the  meanwhile,  the  starch 
grew  cold  and  the  irons  were  overheated.  Emma 
was  not  loquacious,  and  the  dead  pauses  were  neither 
few  nor  far  between.  Emma,  rendered  desperate, 
renewed  her  operations,  but  with  diminished  ardor :; 
her  clapping  was  feeble  as  the  applause  to  an  un 
popular  orator ;  she  burnt  her  fingers,  her  face  became 
flushed  —  and  by  the  time  the  man  of  leisure  had 
sitten  out  his  hour,  a  grey  hue  had  settled  over  her 
muslins,  and  an  indelible  smutch  disfigured  Harry 
Bertram's  collar. 

Mr.  Inklin  soon  called  again,  and  met  Harry  Ber 
tram.  It  was  no  influence  of  coquetry  —  but  Emma 
rallied  her  powers  and  talked  more  to  Mr.  Inklin 
than  to  Harry,  a  modest  youth,  thrown  somewhat  into 
the  shade  by  the  veteran  visiter,  who  outstaid  him. 
Harry,  who  was  not  a  man  of  leisure,  could  not  call 
for  several  days  ;  when  he  did,  Mr.  Inklin  had  "  dropt 
in  "  before  him,  and  was  twirling  his  watch-key,  with 


THE    MAN    OF    LEISURE.  175 

his  cold  wandering  eyes  and  everlasting  affirmatives. 
Emma  sewed  industriously,  and  her  dark  lashes 
concealed  her  eyes.  Her  cheeks  were  beautifully 
flushed,  but  for  whom  ?  Mr.  Iriklin  toyed  with  her 
work-box,  without  seeming  to  know  that  he  was 
touching  what  Harry  thought  a  shrine. 

Harry  looked  a  little  fierce,  and  bade  good  night 
abruptly.  Emma  raised  her  soft  eyes  with  a  look 
that  ought  to  have  detained  a  reasonable  man,  but  he 
was  prepossessed,  and  the  kind  glance  was  lost. 
Emma  wished  Mr.  Inklin  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea, 
but  there  he  sat,  looking  privileged,  because  he  was  a 
man  of  leisure. 

The  fastening  of  the  windows  reminded  him  that 
it  was  time  to  go,  for  he  did  not  limit  his  evening 
calls  to  an  hour.  Emma  went  to  her  bed-room.  She 
was  just  ready  to  cry,  but  a  glance  at  her  mirror 
showed  such  bright  cheeks  that  it  stopped  the  tears, 
and  she  fell  into  a  passion.  She  tied  her  night-cap 
into  a  hard  knot,  and  broke  the  string  in  a  pet. 

"  Harry  Bertram  is  a  fool,"  said  she,  "  to  let  that 
stick  of  a  man  keep  him  from  rne.  I  wish  I  could 
change  places  with  him,"  —  and  sitting  down  on  a 
low  seat,  she  trotted  her  foot  and  heaved  some  deep 
sighs. 


176  MR.    INKLIN,    OR 

The  man  of  leisure  "just  called  in  "  twice  a  week, 
for  three  months.  Report  was  busy  —  Harry's  pride 
was  roused.  He  offered  himself  to  another  pretty 
girl,  and  was  accepted.  Emma's  bright  cheeks  faded, 
her  step  grew  slow,  and  her  voice  was  no  longer 
heard  in  its  gay  carol  from  stair  to  stair.  She  was 
never  talkative,  but  now  she  was  sad.  Mr.  Inklin 
continued  to  "  drop  in,"  his  heart  was  a  little  love- 
touched,  but  then  there  was  "  time  enough."  One 
evening  he  came  with  a  look  of  news. 

"  I  have  brought  you  a  bit  of  Harry  Bertram's 
wedding  cake,"  said  he  to  Emma. 

Emma  turned  pale,  then  red,  and  burst  into  tears. 
The  man  of  leisure  was  concerned.  Emma  looked 
very  prettily  as  she  struggled  with  her  feelings,  while 
the  tears  dried  away ;  and  he  offered  her  his  heart 
and  hand. 

"  I  would  sooner  lie  down  in  my  grave  than  marry 
you,"  said  the  gentle  Emma,  in  a  voice  so  loud  that 
Mr.  Inklin  started,  and  rushing  to  her  own  apartment, 
the  china  rang  in  the  closet  as  she  slammed  the  door. 
•Mr.  Inklin  was  astonished.  Poor  Emma  covered  up 
her  heart  and  smiled  again,  but  she  never  married, 
nor  ever  destroyed  a  little  flower  that  Harry  Bertram 
gave  her  when  it  was  right  for  her  to  love  and  hope. 


THE    MAN    OF    LEISURE.  177 

The  man  of  leisure  bore  her  refusal  with  philosophy, 
and  continued  to  "  drop  in." 

THE    MAN    OF    LEISURE    AND    THE    PALE    BOY. 

"  You'll  please  not  to  forget  to  ask  the  place  for  me, 
sir,"  said  a  pale  blue-eyed  boy,  as  he  brushed  the 
coat  of  the  man  of  leisure  at  his  lodgings. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Mr.  Inklin,  "  I  shall  be  going 
that  way  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  Did  you  ask  for  the  place  for  me,  yesterday  ?  " 
said  the  pale  boy,  on  the  following  day,  with  a  quiver 
ing  lip,  as  he  performed  the  same  office. 

"  No,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  was  busy,  but  I  will 
to-day." 

"  God  help  my  poor  mother,"  murmured  the  boy, 
and  gazed  listlessly  on  the  cent  Mr.  Inklin  laid  in  his 
hand. 

The  boy  went  home.  He  ran  to  the  hungry  chil 
dren  with  the  loaf  of  bread  he  had  earned  by  brush 
ing  the  gentlemen's  coats  at  the  hotel.  They  shouted 
with  joy,  and  his  mother  held  out  her  emaciated 
hand  for  a  portion,  while  a  sickly  smile  flitted  across 
her  face. 

"  Mother,  dear,"  said  the  boy,  "  Mr.  Tnklin  thinks 
he  can  get  me  the  place,  and  I  shall  have  three  meals 


178  MR.    INKLIN,    OR 

a  day  —  only  think,  mother,  three  meals  I  —  and  it 
won't  take  me  three  minutes  to  run  home  and  share 
it  with  you." 

The  morning  came,  and  the  pale  boy's  voice 
trembled  with  eagerness  as  he  asked  Mr.  Iriklin  if 
he  had  applied  for  the  place. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  the  man  of  leisure,  "  but  there  is 
time  enough." 

The  cent  that  morning  was  wet  with  tears.  Another 
morning  arrived. 

"  It  is  very  thoughtless  in  the  boy  to  be  so  late," 
said  Mr.  Inklin.  "  Not  a  soul  to  brush  my  coat !  " 

The  child  came  at  length,  his  face  swollen  with 
weeping. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you,"  said  the  man  of 

leisure,  "but  the  place  in    Mr.   C 's  store  was 

taken  up  yesterday." 

The  boy  stopped  brushing,  and  burst  afresh  into 
tears.  "  I  don't  care  now,"  said  he,  sobbing,  "  we 
may  as  well  starve.  Mother  is  dead." 

The  man  of  leisure  was  shocked,  and  he  gave  the 
pale  boy  a  dollar  ! 

THE    MAN    OF    LEISURE    ON    A   DEATH-BED. 

Mr.  Inklin  was  taken  ill.     He  had  said  often  that 


THE    MAN    OF    LEISURE.  179 

he  thought  religion  might  be  a  good  thing,  and  he 
meant  to  look  into  it.     His   minister  hastened  to  him 
and  spake  to   him  of  eternal  truths.     With  parched 
lips  he  bade  him  come  to-morrow. 
That  night  the  man  of  leisure  died. 


180  THE    BACKWOODSMAN. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.* 

He  flies ! 
He  seeks  the  moaning  forest  trees, 

The  sunny  prairie,  or  the  mountain  sweep, 
The  swelling  river  rushing  to  the  seas, 
The  cataract,  foaming  'neath  the  dizzy  steep, 
Or  softer  streams,  that  by  the  green  banks  sleep, 
To  these  he  flies. 

He  lists 
The  crackling  of  the  springing  deer, 

The  shrill  cry  of  the  soaring  water-fowl, 
The  serpent  hissing  at  his  lone  couch  near, 
The  wild  bear  uttering  loud  her  hungry  howl, 
The  panther  with  his  low  expecting  growl, 
Unmoved  he  lists. 

Wanderer, 
"  Beyond  the  Sabbath,"  tell  me  why, 

With  eager  step  you  shun  the  haunts  of  men, 
And  from  the  music  of  the  church  bells  fly, 
That,  floating  sweetly  o'er  your  native  glen, 
Call  you  to  worship  by  their  chime  again  ? 
Say,  wanderer,  why  ? 

*  The  Backwoodsmen  of  North  America,  when  they  throw 
off  the  forms  of  society,  and  retreat  into  the  forests,  say, 
they  will  "fly  beyond  Sabbath." — Flint's  "  Valky  of  the 
Mississippi." 

The  record-tree  alluded  to,  refers  to  the  custom  of  some 
settlers,  who  preserve  the  date  of  time  by  marking  the  seventh 
day. 


THE    BACKWOODSMAN.  181 

You  kno\v, 
You  feel,  beneath  the  woodland  skies, 

When  comes  the  seventh  day  of  sacred  rest, 
Deep  wells  of  fond  remembrance  struggling  rise. 
Within  the  caverns  of  your  rocky  breast  — 
A  gush  of  thought,  like  visions  of  the  blest. 
At  times  you  know. 

And  you 
Will  turn,  and  mark  the  record-tree 

In  stealthy  silence,  and  a  gentle  prayer 
Unconsciously  will  struggle  to  get  free, 
And  you  will  feel  there  is  a  purer  air, 
More  holy  stillness  over  nature  fair, 
Which  softens  you. 

How  sweet 
The  strain  of  skyey  minstrelsy, 

That  floats  above  you  in  the  wild  bird's  song ! 
Seems  it  to  you,  the  hymn  of  infancy, 
Borne  on  the  breezes  of  remembrance  long, 
When  you  were  foremost  in  the  Sabbath  throng  ! 
Those  strains  were  sweet ! 

Such  tones 
Are  swelling  yet  in  many  a  spot, 

Sacredly  twining  out  with  praise  and  joy  ; 
And  there's  a  group  —  oh,  they  forgot  you  not  — 
Who  prayers  and  tears  for  you,  for  you  employ. 
And  hopes,  that  even  time  cannot  destroy, 
Are  in  their  tones. 

They  call, 
They  call  you,  rover,  back  again  ! 

There  is  a  mound  beneath 'your  village  spire, 
Where,  touched  by  love,  your  tears  would  fall  like  rain— 


182  THE    BACKWOODSMAN. 

It  shields  a  holy  man,  your  aged  sire. 
Who  sought  in  life  to  curb  your  youthful  fire. 
Hear  his  death-call ! 

In  vain  ;  — 
Alas,  you  heed  not  e'en  that  call ; 

Proudly  you  stand  upon  the  red-man's  ground. 
And  woman's  tears,  that  slow  and  silent  fall, 
Slighted,  from  your  resolved  breast  rebound, 
Your  free  words  through  the  woodland  depths  resound 
"  Her  call  is  vain  !  " 

Farewell 
Forever,  roamer  of  the  wild  ! 

God,  whom  you  can  forget,  his  own  will  see  — 
His  sun  still  shines  upon  his  erring  child, 
His  breezes  fan  you  with  their  current  free, 
And  his  green  sod  your  burial-place  shall  be. 
Oh,  fare  you  well ! 


HE  FOR  GOD  ONLY,  SHE  FOR  GOD  IN  HIM.    183 


HE  FOR  GOD  ONLY,  SHE  FOR  GOD  IN  HIM.' 


When  Pleasure  gilds  thy  passing  hours, 
And  Hope  enwreaths  her  fairy  flowers, 
And  Love  appears  with  playful  hand 
To  steal  from  Time  his  falling  sand, 
Oh,  then  I'll  smile  with  thee. 

When  nature's  beauties  bless  thy  sight, 
And  yield  a  thrill  of  soft  delight ; 
When  morning  glories  greet  thy  gaze, 
Or  veiling  twilight  still  delays, 

Then  I'll  admire  with  thee. 

When  the  far-clustering  stars  unroll 
Their  bannered  lights  from  pole  to  pole, 
Or,  when  the  moon  glides  queenly  by, 
Looking  in  silence  on  thine  eye, 

I'll  gaze  on  Heaven  with  thee, 

When  music  with  her  unsought  lay 
Awakes  the  household  holiday, 
Or  sabbath  notes  in  concert  strong 
Lift  up  the  sacred  wings  of  song, 

I'll  sing  those  strains  with  thee. 

But  should  misfortune  hovering  nigh 
Wrest  from  thy  aching  heart  a  sight* 
Or,  with  an  aspect  chill  and  drear, 
Despondence  draw  the  unbidden  tear, 
Oh,  then,  I'll  weep  with  thee. 


184    HE  FOR  GOD  ONLY,  SHE  FOR  GOD  IN  HIM. 

Should  poverty  with  withering  hand 
Wave  o'er  thy  head  his  care-wrought  wand, 
And  ope  within  thy  soul  the  void, 
That  haunts  a  mind  with  hopes  destroyed, 
I'll  share  that  pang  with  thee. 

"When  youth  and  youthful  pleasures  fly, 
And  earth  is  fading  on  thine  eye, 
"When  life  has  lost  its  early  charm, 
And  all  thy  wish  is  holy  calm, 

I'll  love  that  calm  with  thee. 

And  when  unerring  death  at  last, 
Comes  rushing  on  time's  fatal  blast, 
And  naught  (not  e'en  my  love)  can  save 
Thy  form  from  the  encroaching  grave, 
I'll  share  that  grave  writh  thee. 

And  when  thy  spirit  soars  above, 
Wrapt  in  the  foldings  of  God's  love, 
Is  it  too  much  to  ask  of  Heaven, 
That  some  low  seat  may  there  be  given, 
Where  I  can  bow  near  thee  ? 


THE    FORTIETH   WEDDING-DAY.  185 


THE  FORTIETH  WEDDING-DAY. 

Again  thour't  come,  and  I  am  here, 
With  faded  eye  and  locks  of  gray  ; 

How  changed  the  scenes  of  life  appear, 
On  this,  my  fortieth  wedding-day. 

Was  this  the  morn  whose  early  hours, 
Woke  fluttering  with  a  troubled  joy  ; 

When  all  my  footsteps  were  on  flowers, 
And  hope  alone  my  heart's  employ  ? 

And  where  are  they  the  young  and  fair, 
Who  graced  that  day  with  opening  bloom  ? 

I  ask,  and  "echo  answers  where," 
Dear  inmates  of  the  silent  tomb. 

I  see  them  now,  the  welcome  throng, 
That  pressed  around  my  bridal  home  ! 

The  tale,  the  laugh,  the  merry  song, 
Like  shadows  o'er  my  senses  come. 

I  see  them  round  my  toilette  press, 

And  fold  the  plait,  and  smooth  the  hair, 

And  give  the  soothing,  fond  caress, 
And  kiss  the  brow  they  said  was  fair. 

I  hear  the  solemn  promise  given, 
I  feel  the  small  ring's  circle  now, 

The  closing  prayer  ascends  to  Heaven, 
And  angel  pens  record  the  vow. 

?Tis  gone  —  'tis  gone  —  the  fading  dream  ! 

My  hair  is  blanched,  my  eyes  are  dim  ; 
I'm  floating  on  life's  closing  stream, 

But,  /praised  be  God)  it  leads  to  Him. 

13 


186  MY    GARDEN. 


MY   GARDEN. 


My  garden,  fresh  and  beautiful !  —  the  spell  of  frost  is  o'er, 
And  earth  sends  out  its  varied  leaves,  a  rich  and  lavish  store  ; 
My  heart  too  breaks  its  wintry  chain,  with  stem  and  leaf  and 

flower, 
And  glows  in  hope  and  happiness  amid  the  spring-tide  hour. 

JTis  sunset  in  my  garden  —  the  flowers  and  buds  have 

caught 
Bright  revelations  from  the  skies  in  wondrous  changes 

wrought ; 

And  as  the  twilight  hastens  on,  a  spiritual  calm 
Seems  resting  on  the  quiet  leaves,  which  evening  dews 

embalm. 

'Tis  moonlight  in  my  garden  ;  like  some  fair  babe  at  rest 
The  day-flower  folds  its  silky  wing  upon  its  pulseless  breast ; 
Nor  is  it  vain  philosophy  to  think  that  plants  may  keep 
A  holiday  of  airy  dreams  beneath  their  graceful  sleep. 

'Tis  morning  in  my  garden ;  each  leaf  of  crisped  green 
Hangs  tremulous  in  diamond  gems  with  emerald  rays 

between ; 

It  is  the  birth  of  nature  :  baptized  in  early  dew, 
The  plants  look  meekly  up  and  smile  as  if  their  God  they 

knew. 

My  garden  —  fair  and  brilliant !  —  the  butterfly  outspread 
Alights  with  gentle  fluttering  on  the  wall-flower's  golden 

head, 

Then  darting  to  the  lily-bed  floats  o'er  its  sheeted  white, 
And  settles  on  the  violet's  cup  with  fanciful  delight. 


MY    GARDEN.  187 

My  quiet  little  garden  !  —  I  hear  the  rolling  wheel 
Of  the  city's  busy  multitude  along  the  highway  peal, 
I  tread  thy  paths  more  fondly,  and  inhale  the  circling  air 
That  glads  and  cools  me  on  its  way  from  that  wide  mart  of 
care. 

My  friendly  little  garden !  few  worldly  goods  have  I 
To  tender  with  o'erflowing  heart  in  blessed  charity, 
But,  like  the  cup  of  water  by  a  pure  disciple  given, 
An  herb  or  flower  may  tell  its  tale  of  kindliness  in  heaven. 

My  small  herbescent  garden !  what  though  I  may  not  raise 
High  tribute  to  thy  fruitfulness  in  these  familiar  lays  — 
Yet  when  thy  few  shrunk  radishes  I  pluck  with  eager  haste, 
They  seem  a  daintier  food  to  me  than  gods  ambrosial  taste. 

And  as  for  those  three  artichokes,  the  fruit  of  toilsome  care, 
And  my  angel-visit  cucumbers  that  come  so  sparse  and  rare, 
And  the  straggling  ears  of  corn  that  shoot  so  meagre,  thin, 

and  small, 
To  me  they  still  outweigh  the  hoards  that  crowd  the  market 

stall. 

I  own  I  have  mistakenly  oft  trained  a  vulgar  weed, 
And  rooted  up  with  savage  hand  some  choice  and  costly 

seed, 

And  boiled  a  precious  bulbous  root  of  lineage  high  and  rare, 
And  planted  onions  in  a  jar  with  most  superfluous  care  : 

But  truth  springs  out  of  error,  and  right  succeeds  to  wrong ; 
Mistakes  that  wound,  and  weeds  that  vex,  give  morals  to 

my  song, 

That  bid  me  clear  my  mental  soil  and  calmly  look  within, 
To  check  the  growth  of  earth's  wild  weeds,  of  passion  and 

of  sin. 


188  MY    GARDEN. 

To  nobler  themes,  and  hopes,  and  joys,  my  garden  culture 

tends ; 
To  that  high  world  where  only  flower  without  the  weed 

ascends, 

I  lift  my  soul  in  reverie,  enraptured  and  alone, 
Still  coining  links  of  thought  that  wreathe  my  spirit  to  God's 

throne. 

Yet  sadness  sometimes  fills  my  mind,  as  each  unfolding  sweet 
Springs  up  in  ready  beauty  beneath  my  household's  feet  — 
For  some  young  hand  that  gathers  now  the  plants  that  gaily 

wave, 
May  shortly  lie  in  withered  bloom  within  the  dreary  grave. 

My  faith-inspiring  garden  !  thy  seeds  so  dark  and  cold 
Late  slept  in  utter  loneliness  amid  earth's  senseless  mould ; 
No  sunbeams  fell  upon  them,  nor  west-wind's  gentle  breath, 
But  there  they  lay  in  nothingness,  an  image  meet  of  death. 

Now,  lo !  they  rise  in  gorgeous  ranks,  and  glad  the  eager 

eye, 

And  on  the  wooing  summer-breeze  their  odor  passes  by  ; 
The  flower-grave  cannot  chain  them  ;  the  spirit-life  upsprings 
And  scatters  beauty  in  its  path  from  thousand  unseen  wings. 

My  garden !  may  the  morning  dew  rest  lightly  on  thy 

bowers, 
And  summer  clouds  distil  around  their  most  refreshing 

showers, 

And  when  the  daily  sun  withdraws  his  golden  tent  above, 
May  moon  and  stars  look  watchful  down  and  bless  thee  with 

their  love. 


MY    KNITTING-WORK.  189 


MY  KNITTING-WORK. 


Youth's  buds  have  oped  and  fallen  from  my  life's  expand 
ing  tree, 

And  soberer  fruits  have  ripened  on  its  hardened  stocks  for 
me; 

No  longer  with  a  buoyant  step  I  tread  my  pilgrim  way, 

And  earth's  horizon  closer  bends  from  hastening  day  to  day. 

No  more  with  curious  questioning  I  seek  the  fervid  crowd, 
Nor  to  ambition's  glittering  shrine  I  feel  my  spirit  bowed, 
But  as  bewitching  flatteries  from  worldly  ones  depart, 
Love's  circle  narrows  deeply  about  my  quiet  heart. 

Home  joys  come  thronging  round  me,  bright,  blessed,  gentle, 

kind; 
The  social  meal,  the  fireside  book,  unfettered  mind  with 

mind; 
The  unsought  song  that  asks  no  praise,  but  spirit-stirred  and 

free, 
Wakes  up  within  the  thoughtful  soul  remembered  melody. 

Nor  shall  my  humble  knitting-work  pass  unregarded  here, 
The  faithful  friend  who  oft  has  chased  a  furrow  or  a  tear, 
Who  comes  with  still  unwearied  round  to  cheer  my  failing 

eye, 
And  bid  the  curse  of  ennui  from  its  polished  weapons  fly. 

Companionable  knitting-work !  when  gayer  friends  depart, 
Thou  hold'st  thy  busy  station  even  very  near  my  heart ; 
And  when  no  social  living  tones  to  sympathy  appeal, 
I  hear  a  gentle  accent  from  thy  softly  clashing  steel. 


190  MY   KNITTING-WORK. 

My  knitting- work !  my  knitting-work  !  a  confidant  art  thou, 
As  smooth  and  shining  on  my  lap  thou  liest  beside  me  now  ; 
Thou  know'st  some  stories  of  my  thoughts  the  many  may 

not  know, 
As  round  and  round  the  accustomed  path  my  careful  fingers 

go. 

Sweet,  silent,  quiet  knitting-work  !  thou  interruptest  not 
My  reveries  and  pleasant  thoughts,  forgetting  and  forgot ! 
I  take  thee  up  and  lay  the  down,  and  use  thee  as  I  may, 
And  not  a  contradicting  word  thy  burnished  lips  will  say. 

My  moralizing  knitting-work !  thy  threads  most  aptly  show 
How  evenly  around  life's  span  our  busy  threads  should  go ; 
And  if  a  stitch  perchance  should  drop,  as  life's  frail  stitches 

will, 
How,  if  we  patient  take  it  up,  the  work  may  prosper  still. 


THIS  B 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  (  F 


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GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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